


Five Times Baz Was Jealous and the One Time He Wasn’t

by Moonstonemagic



Series: Sex Magic [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 5 Times, At least until Wayward Son comes out, Bottom Simon, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Jealous Baz, M/M, POV Multiple, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Top Baz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 09:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18635125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonstonemagic/pseuds/Moonstonemagic
Summary: Simon's magic is back and the side effects are driving Baz a little insane.  Simon's oblivious (as usual).  How is Baz supposed to cope?  (The answer is still sex, obviously).





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do you like fluff and the boys being domestic and cute? But do you also like smut and dirty-ish talk? Do you like cats and magic? How about when dialogue is jacked straight from Carry On and inserted into fic? (Sorry, Rainbow, I love you, and it could never be mine). 
> 
> Then yeah, my friend, it's all here.
> 
> You could read this as a standalone, but Sex Magic also has all of the things you're looking for if you wound up here. It comes before this fic chronologically, so if you haven't read it yet, I'd highly recommend it. (If you don't want to listen to me, that's cool too, but really, you might want to.) Go ahead, make a proper afternoon out of this shit.

 

 

BAZ

 

I _loathe_ Tuesdays.  Absolute bore of a day.  If Tuesday was a person, they’d be an utter dullard, sitting bland and unnoticed in a corner of the room.  At least Mondays are universally hated, though they somewhat redeem themselves by carrying the promise of a fresh slate, but Tuesdays come sneaking right in behind them, offering nothing.  Wednesdays are neutral: a reliable, steadying mid-point.  A pause.  Thursday might as well be Friday, and then there’s the weekend, which everybody loves (unless you’re off your rocker).  Especially me, because I get to spend them with Simon, and it’s all two and a half days of complete perfection before the week churns to a start again.

 

I tap my pen against the wood-grain of the desk, surveying the skies.  As if Tuesdays weren’t offensive enough, this particular one has nerve.  It’s developed into a state of spectacular dreariness, a somber shade of grey blanketing the skeletal trees and darkening the surrounding cityscape.  It’s about as bleak and lifeless outside as Tuesday feels, but I suppose that’s a given this time of year.   

 

But this Tuesday is different.  It’s my birthday.  And unlike any other birthday before it, it began with my boyfriend, with Simon Snow (of all miracles), in my arms, safe and warm, his tail curled around my leg as he slept. 

 

Tuesdays are usually rotten, but for that alone, this one hasn’t been so bad.         

 

 

 

SIMON

 

 _Shite._ It’s Baz’s birthday and I’m running behind schedule (as usual), and I really want to surprise him.  I’m chronically late although it annoys Baz to no end, but I honestly can’t help it.  It’s not like I ever _intend_ upon it.  I always think I have more time than I do and I’m eating when I should be showering and showering when I should be dressing and dressing when I should be out the door.  Penny generously refers to me as a “time-optimist”, but it’s still the same.  I don’t have much longer if I want to catch him after his last class.       

 

I thought I’d just surprise him with my presence, but I do that half the time anyway, so I figured I shouldn’t show up empty-handed at the very least.  It should be a little more special, not like some ordinary Tuesday.  Right?  I’m a terrible boyfriend, still pants at romance, but even _I’m_ capable of recognize that.  I’d thought of flowers, and even though we’re firmly ensconced in well, gay stuff, it had seemed a little _too_ soft.  Coffee is more of a safe bet, even though it’s a bit standard and more than a tad boring, and so it’s barely much of a gesture at all, but at least I know he’ll drink it.         

 

If only this queue weren’t moving so agonizingly slow.  I’ve been considering casting **Make way for the king** , but how would that even work in a Starbucks?  This place seems to have its own strange brand of magic anyway.   I mean, what reasonably sane person would spend several pounds on a cake pop?  I like cake and all, sure, but it’s practically one bite.  And besides, I’m really not trying to muck up our relationship with the location closest to our flat should something go wrong.  One false move and our future cups will either be brimming with ice or scant on whipped cream.  And Baz _needs_ his whipped cream.  Without it, he’s one grumpy vampire.     

 

Finally, _finally_ , I’m motioned forward by the barista at the till.  I’ve seen her here before – she’d be hard to miss.  She’s stunning: hair like a flame with eyes like summer grass and freckles dusting her cheekbones (they’re almost as sharp as Baz’s).  I’ve never thought my freckles looked especially nice, but when I look at someone like her, I can see it. 

 

“Simon, right?”  She grins and it’s like a hook; I’m pulled into the force of it. 

 

“Yeah.  _Yes_.”  I’m not _that_ loyal of a customer.  I think I’ve only taken note of her a time or two before today.  “How’d you know?”

 

“Good memory,” she replies, raising her index finger to rap it against her forehead.  She _is_ good.  Mine’s more like a sieve.  “Anyway, what will it be?  The usual?”

 

Am I really here that often to have a usual?  I mean, I guess so, but I don’t think she’s been the one to take my orders before. 

 

“Please,” I answer.  Might as well see if her memory’s got it right.  “Could I also have a venti pumpkin mocha breve with extra whipped cream?”

 

“ _You_ can have anything you want,” she says, and her laugh’s like a song as she reaches for the cups.

 

“Alright, thanks,” I respond, confused.  Do I know her from somewhere else?  Uni, maybe?  She’s a bit too friendly, given the length of the line, but then I remember, and it’s clear.  Surveys.  This must all be due to the surveys.  Baz is here so frequently that he gets an email with one nearly every other day.  “Uh, great customer service,” I add hastily.  I pluck a tenner from my wallet and hand it over. 

 

“I know _your_ name, but can I have the other?”  She lifts a marker and smiles expectantly.  Her fingers are pale and slender, like - 

 

“Baz.”

 

“Bax?”

 

“Baz.”  I lean a little closer.  She smells like cinnamon and something else – something vaguely citrus.  “B-A-Z.”  Bergamot.  That’s it.

 

“Got it,” she says, and her eye closes in a wink.  Is there something stuck in it?  That’s seriously the worst.  I’d ask if she needs help, but she’s turned herself around and I’m already pushing against the boundaries of time anyway.  She hands me our drinks, and her fingertips brush along the back of my hand.  “Hope to see you around soon.” 

 

 “You too.  Cheers.” 

 

Merlin, I hope she hasn’t somehow given me pink eye.  Baz would take the piss for a week.     

 

 

BAZ

 

I push out of the lecture hall doors and into the washed out world.  What a dismal yawn of an afternoon.  It’s just as bad outside as it looks – the ashen dampness of the day sinks into my bones after the first few steps.  Although Microeconomic Principles is fascinating enough, I really could use a coffee. 

 

Simon can’t fathom how I manage to remain conscious for my courses, but I suppose we’ve always had different interests.  Economics is a bit more subtle than saving humanity, fine, but it does keep the world running.  Privately, I do see his point at times.  This field _can_ be a bit uninspired.  This class is held in a place called “The New Academic Building”, for Crowley’s sake.  How original. 

 

I round the corner onto Kingsway and collide with color.  It smashes into me and drips all over my front, all blue and golden and caramel too, if I’m going by the scent of it.  Then there’s pink when he blushes, and I don’t even care if I’m wearing a drink because it’s _him_. 

 

“Fallen head over heels, Snow?”  I extend the hand that isn’t holding a crumpled cup to him (vampire reflexes are occasionally convenient) and he pulls himself up to meet me, dusting off his jeans.  He looks to be dry, the (beautiful) clumsy oaf, although there seems to be a fresh set of holes at his knees.    

 

“Fuck!  Sorry, Baz, shit.”  He steps back, panting heavily as he looks me over.  “Alright?”

 

“Stickier than I’d like.”  I’d snarl at anyone else, but because I’m disgustingly in love, I settle for a sneer instead.  “I take it I should spare you the lecture on punctuality?”

 

“I _wanted_ to surprise you,” he huffs, lowering his gaze to scan the concrete.  He bends to retrieve the drink that’s somehow gone unscathed and passes it to me.  “And I technically did.  I only had to run a little and I would’ve made it mess-free as well, if you hadn’t swept me off my feet like usual.”  He smiles, pressing a brief kiss to the outside of my lips, and I’m transformed into a smiling idiot too.  “Happy Birthday, Baz.”

 

Thank Merlin for Simon.  And caffeine.  I take a cautious sip, scrutinizing the loopy handwriting as I lower my cup.  “It’d be a better one if they could spell my name right for once.  B-A-D.  Crowley, Snow, _what_ did you tell them about me?” 

 

“Ugh, we even went over it a few times.  I thought she’d had it too.”  He brushes off his straw and shrugs.  “I guess D is kind of close to Z on the keyboard though, right?”

 

“It’s written on, Snow.”

 

“Oh.  I hadn’t noticed.”  He turns his drink over and his flush reddens, renewed.  The I in his name is dotted with a heart.  How sodding juvenile.  I nearly snort at the _obviousness_ of it all, but I really can’t help but think that I should be the one to make him burn.      

 

“Well, now that you’ve got me, what _are_ you planning on doing with me?”  I raise an eyebrow and his blush creeps into his ears.  _There_.  That’s better. 

 

He bites his lip and it’s all I can do not to push him against the wall and take it between my own teeth, but he forces an even exhale, then lowers his wand from the inside of his coat sleeve.  “How about we tidy you up for starters?”  He smirks, turning his head in search of potential approaching Normals.  “You’re being rather dirty today.” 

 

He casts **Clean as a whistle** and it’s still a little new, not having to hold a breath with every spell, not having to worry if it will last.  His magic’s electric, pulsing through my insides, and it makes me shiver.  Or is it just him, the way he makes me feel?  Sometimes I wonder how it affects others, if the current’s stronger for me because our magics are tied together in some unyielding voltaic blaze.  But I think I’d rather not know if he makes anyone else feel like this.   

 

“Cold?”  I’m always cold unless I’m wrapped up in him.  “You’re still wet.  Better my drink on you than yours, I guess, but still.”  Simon’s the only person I know of who insists upon iced beverages in below-freezing temperatures.  I think it’s an idiosyncrasy that stemmed from years of being overheated by his formerly malfunctioning magic.  It’s the only explanation I can think of that makes sense during the winter.  “ ** _Some like it hot_**.  Better?” 

 

“Thawing,” I lie.  More like blistering from his magic, from the want of him.  He’s just tumbled into my day, crashing through the banality of it, completely unaware of how damn attractive he is.  It would be more infuriating if I didn’t love it so much.

 

“Good.”  He extracts a brown bag from the pocket of his jacket and holds it up.  “I got two scones, in case you wanted one?”  I wave him off and he tears into one happily, nearly inhaling it.  “So I haven’t thought of anything, really, and I’m pants at gifts, but –”

 

“Well, I don’t know about that, Snow,” I interrupt.  “I _quite_ liked the anniversary present you got me.”

 

“I…” He swallows thickly, coloring again, and I have to fight the sudden boiling urge to drag him into the nearest empty classroom.  “I – _fuck_ ,” he groans, squeezing his eyelids shut, and the compulsion intensifies.  “Baz.  I can’t gift that _again_ … well, I _can_ , but sex for every occasion might get old.  It’s kind of a lame move if it’s more than a time or two.  And we just had Valentine’s Day, so I think I’m basically at my limit.”

 

“No, I don’t think so, actually.  Couldn’t think of anything I’d like more.”  It’s the truth – I really can’t.  “And everyone knows that’s the whole bloody purpose of Valentine’s Day.  If you don’t count the rampant over-commercialization, that is.  But go on.” 

 

He blinks hard, running a hand through his hair.  “Uhm, anyway, I know we have weekend plans, but I didn’t know what you might want to do tonight for your actual birthday.  We can do anything you want.”  He leans against the wall, dropping his head to his chest.  A curl flops across his forehead and he looks up at me, wincing.  “I’m sorry, I’m complete crap at this.  I know your birthday last year wasn’t very fun thanks to me either.  I was hoping to make it up to you, now that we’re actually in the same city.  I should have planned this better.”   

 

I wish he wouldn’t talk such nonsense.  As if I give a flying fuck about something as trivial as birthdays after I’d almost lost him last year?  Besides, this is actually much more preferable.

 

“ _Anything_ I want?  Hm.  You sure you want to mean that, Snow?”  I don’t have anything nefarious in mind.  Quite the opposite, if I’m honest.  But I still so do enjoy watching him struggle. 

 

He gulps again, his throat bobbing showily.  I’m convinced the damned thing is sentient somehow.  It clearly has a death wish.  Why else would it insist on recklessly flaunting itself with a vampire in the direct vicinity?   “I do, Baz.  I really do,” he answers.  “Anything.”

 

It’s tempting to use this opportunity for evil, but I’ve been wanting to do this for ages, and I’m not sure I’ll get away with it any other time.  I place a palm on either side of him and lean in until I’m close enough to taste the whisper of caramel on his breath.  “It’s sorted then.  Finish your scone, love.  Harrods won’t do with crumbs on their floors.”  I lick the seam of his lips, then push off.  I can’t see it, but my smile’s bound to be a smug one.  I still take great pleasure in teasing him, but have found I’m able to do it in much more interesting ways now that we’re together. 

 

“Shopping?”  His face falls and his jaw hangs open in dismay (despite my best efforts, he’ll always be a mouth breather).  “Baz, come off it.  I _know_ I said anything, but you know I hate shopping.”

 

“Really?  Couldn’t tell.  Stick with me and it’ll be fine.  You’re even in dress code,” I add cheerily, angling forward to shut his mouth with my thumb. 

 

“They’ve a dress code?” he wails, the corners of his mouth drawn down into a pout as he sinks into the wall further.  I’ve been made painfully aware of it for years now, but Merlin, is he ever cute when he’s complaining.       

 

“Hush.”  I place my hands on his shoulders, drawing him up.  “Relax.  There’s a food hall.  Little bit of shopping and then I’ll take you straight to it.  Promise.  Would the birthday boy lie to you?”

 

 

SIMON

 

Turns out he would.

 

We’re in the menswear department and I’ve never been so intimidated, not even when the chimera was blasting away at us and my magic wouldn’t work.  At least I had my sword then.  There’s nothing to comfort me here now – not even Baz.  He’s perfectly unfazed, totally in his element as he strides among the aisles, his shoulders straight.  I’ll never fit in here – it’s hopeless, but he might be able to camouflage me if I tail him closely.  I close the gap between us and nearly trip on the soles of his black leather boots.           

 

He turns to scowl at me, little lines forming at the top of his too-high nose.  “Forgotten how to walk today, Snow?”

 

“I – yes.  I.  Uh – no?”  My face already feels hot and I absolutely dread the thought of sweating on something valuable.  There’s a gigantic bloody _chandelier_ hanging directly above my head and it’s not exactly helping matters.        

 

“Problem?  What is it?”  He says, like it’s a statement and not a question. 

 

I turn my head down and away.  The floor’s been shined so supremely that I can make out the entirety of my reflection in it, right down to the moles.  I’ll likely be the blundering wanker that scuffs it.  “I’m just… I’m terrified I’ll knock something over or step on something wrong.”

 

He appraises me from head to foot, his chin angled.  “Then may I suggest that you walk beside me and not behind me?  That may help with your fear, along with keeping your arms by your sides.”  I’d been swinging them and I stop, pausing on the marbled floor.  “Yes, Simon?”

 

“It’s only…,” I trail off, and he stares, his eyes boring into me, grey as iron.  I know better.  Baz will skin me alive, but my mouth is always a step ahead of me, speaking when it should be closing, and it falls out.  “Well, when you said _anything_ , I was hoping for something sex related.”

 

“Will you keep it down, _please_?” he hisses, his eyelids closing in a grimace.  He presses on them, exhaling swiftly.  “If you continue on like this much longer, I can assure you you’ll get your wish and that I may even make you feel sorry that you ever asked.”

 

Well.  Okay, then.  “Can I get a fashion show at least?”

 

“No.”  He stops to examine a blue cashmere jumper with a row of white stripes on the sleeves.  “Not today, I’m afraid.”

 

“Why not?”  I’ve seen him in front of a mirror.  Baz would ordinarily relish the opportunity to strut around in luxury clothing for an adoring audience.  “That’s nice, Baz.  Looks soft.  Though I don’t see you wear much blue.”

 

“That’s because it looks much better on you.”  He draws it from the rack and into his arms.  “And because we’re not here for me.”

 

“Then who?”

 

He raps his fingers against the hanger and heaves a sigh.  “Must you really be so deliberately obtuse?  You’ll be the one doing the modeling this evening.”

 

“We’re here for _me_?”  Fuck, now I’m really sweating.  “A shirt here costs more than my life.  You can’t expect me to –”

 

“- To what?”  He lifts an eyebrow in challenge.  “Accept a present?”

 

“Not when a jumper costs…” I grab at the nearest one, and I’m certain my eyes resemble the bugged-out ones in cartoon strips when I focus on the price tag.  “A thousand pounds?!  What?  _How_?  No.”

 

“That’s from a high-end designer.”  He looks it over and wrinkles his nose.  “And fugly.  Don’t be a fool.  I’d never put you in that.”  It’s cream-colored with baggy arms and a shapeless, too-wide collar.  There’s also a brown satyr playing a horn on it.  He’s probably right.  He may be a snarky git at times, but he’s not downright evil.  I decide not to argue that point.

 

“Baz, I can’t afford this.  We’re students.  You likely can’t either.”

 

“That may be true, but Father has had an account here for decades.  I can’t really say that we have many father-son bonding traditions, but he has always taken me here for my birthdays.  As you know, he’s away on Coven business until April.  I doubt it will break his heart when I tell him I went without him, although he will be fairly miffed if I don’t accompany him when he returns in the spring.”  He shakes his head, shuddering.  “He really does have dreadful taste in footwear.  He needs my input, or else it’ll be four pairs of penny loafers, one in every available color.  _Navy_ penny loafers, Snow.  Can you imagine?” He asks, incredulous.  The scandalized expression on his face is identical to the one he’d made in Greek when the Minotaur had accidentally conjugated a verb incorrectly.  (I hadn’t noticed.)

 

“Your family, Baz.  I can’t ask –”

 

“You don’t have to.  This is a gift to me, which I am giving to you.  Even if I wasn’t, Father’s been going on and on lately about how he wants to repay us for testing out Hampshire these last few weeks while he’s been out of town.”

 

“If that’s what you want to call it,” I retort, rolling my eyes as I inhale heavily through my nose.  Christ, even the air smells posh, like it’s been filtered and perfumed. 

   

Professor Bunce’s team had worked tirelessly to inspect the holes after Christmas, and the affected families had been given clearance to return to their homes shortly after the New Year.  Malcom had refused to let Baz’s siblings return until he had the opportunity to investigate the quality of the magickal atmosphere for himself, but before he had the chance, he had been called away on unexpected business.  Baz had offered to stay on his behalf in order to speed along the process and Malcom had (shockingly and surprisingly) suggested I join him so that Baz wouldn’t have only the wraiths for company. 

 

Sure, we’ve been throwing around some spells here and there to test the surroundings, but we’ve mostly been experimenting on each other from Friday evenings to Sunday afternoons.  We manage to get a bit of studying done as well, but too often, a wayward glance shifts into the dropping of a pen or the slamming of a textbook and it’s done and over with and we’re at each other, shagging for hours in Baz’s Gargoyle-festooned bed.  Or on the Persian rug beside the fire.  Or on the tufted sofa in the library among the leather-bound books.  Anywhere the mood strikes, really, and it seems to strike quite a lot.  So yeah, Baz’s dad might not feel so indebted if he knew.

 

“Let’s not squabble over semantics, dear.”  He crosses his arms and bloody _leers_ , eyes flashing.  I know we’re both picturing the same sordid scenes and it would be so easy to get distracted, but -

 

I succeed in jutting out my chin and squaring my shoulders.  “Well then, how about the fact that you lied to me?”

 

“I didn’t lie.  You assumed.”  He’s navigating the racks decisively, surveying garments with a flick of his eye and a snap of his wrist.  He adds a pair of trousers to the mounting pile in his arms.  “And you assumed wrongly.  I will admit to potential misrepresentation, but there was absolutely no deception involved on my part.”

 

“Baz…”

 

“Simon.”

 

“I can’t.  It’s too much.”

 

“It’s really not.”

 

“But, I –”

 

“- Look, for some reason, I find you absurdly attractive given the current state of your clothing, but you can’t deny that this is all inevitable.”  He tilts his head, glowering pointedly at the fabric of my jeans.  My right kneecap is completely visible, framed by tatters.   

 

“Aren’t rips in now?” I try. 

 

“Sure, a few artful ones, maybe.  But we’re talking holes.  In February.  I’ve done the washing, love, and your clothes aren’t much longer for this world.  Plus, you’ve been talking about joining a social league.  You’re likely not going to fit in my trousers for much longer.”

 

This is one of my therapist’s ideas.  She thinks joining a club or group on campus (preferably a physical one) may give me improved “personal agency” and an “emotional outlet”, and that it may help me to feel less isolated.  Sure, I have Penny and Baz, of course, but they _know_ about me, how I’m feeling, what I’ve been through.  No one else does.  I’m not planning on telling anyone, either.  (How would you even _begin_ to translate a story about unintentionally murdering your mentor after you sacrificed your soul in exchange for saving the magickal world into something a Normal would understand?  Then there’s also the added part about my retractable dragon wings and tail, _and_ the fact that my former nemesis turned vampire boyfriend shagged my magic back into me last Christmas Eve.) 

 

But it would be nice to feel more connected, more normal (not Normal – I’d only been without magic for a few months and it had been torture enough).  My psychologist had suggested waiting until after I’d finished with fall term so that there wouldn’t be too many adjustments for me to make at once.  There’s loads of societies to pick from, but it was an easy choice, especially when I’d learned there’s even a team comprised of solely Psychology majors.  I’d had to settle for the next best thing (watching Baz), but I’d always wanted to play football more at Watford.

 

And I know I should lay off the takeaway a tad, but, “Nice try,” I respond.  “But shouldn’t all the running make me smaller?”  At least, I’d thought it had whenever I’d been practicing with the team through sixth year (before the Mage had taken to hauling me away on his missions with growing frequency).

 

“I’ve checked out your backside on the pitch more than I’m willing to admit to and the answer is decidedly _no_.”  He holds an orange flannel up to my chest, narrows his eyes, and returns it to the shelf. 

 

“Are you calling me fat?”

 

“I’m calling you exceedingly thick.  As in mentally.  I’m _trying_ to compliment you.”

 

“Fooled me,” I grumble.  “It doesn’t feel that way.”

 

“Okay, fine.  I’ll do it.  I’ll come right out with it.”  He coughs, scratching at the back of his neck.  “Your bum is going to get massive.  In a way that I very much enjoy.  If you make me say anymore, you’ll have ruined my birthday.”

 

“But you don’t… you,” I pause, distracted.  Baz was checking out my arse?  Something sets off in my insides and I swear to God someone’s cranked the heat up and I’ve really, really got to stop sweating.  “But you always looked the same.”

 

“Well, we can’t all be devastatingly tall, wiry and handsome, can we?”  The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk as he places a button-up shirt on top of the pile.  It’s a dusty shade of pink, but I let him.  He undoubtedly knows what he’s doing – I haven’t had to veto anything thus far.  It’s apparent that this is yet another bloody thing he’s good at, but it’s hardly a surprise.  I’ve known him to be a smart dresser for years and he’s made tonight’s task look just as effortless.  “And clearly you’re not a calf man.  Now, are you going to try this all on?”

 

“I – I still don’t know, Baz.  I don’t want to be some charity case.  I realized – I have the Mage’s inheritance, but I’m not sure how I feel about spending it, after… what happened.”  This has been another ongoing point of discussion with my magickal therapist.  The Mage’s will had been definitive, but how do you accept, let alone use, the life savings of the person you killed, however accidentally?

 

He groans, edging his fingertips into his temples.  “I thought we’d sorted this.  He kept you in care half your life, Simon.  And I know, I _know_ ,” he stresses, waving his free hand, “it was supposedly for your safety, but surely you can buy some togs on his dime guilt-free.  But like I’ve been saying, this is a non-issue.  I’m regifting you something of mine, so let’s not make it a big production, because nobody likes a regift, do they?  I’ll call Father now if you’re not convinced.”  I want to protest further, but he’s right.  I’ve been in rags for my whole sodding life and it’s been fine, but to Baz, it isn’t.  “Trust me,” he continues.  “Please?  I get it’s a little stodgy in here and that you’re reluctant to accept this, but just a few basics will do – they’ll last you forever.”

 

My resolve’s weakening, but I’ve come to realize that there’s always opportunity in defeat. 

 

“If, _if_ , I do this, does this mean I get anything I want for my birthday?”

 

“Such as?”  He looks amused, but once he hears my request, he likely won’t be for much longer.

 

“You sitting in on a therapy call.”

 

“Fine.”  What?  His face is neutral, as if it means nothing.

 

“ _Fine_?” I echo.  “But you…”

 

“Unlike you, Snow, I know how to concede.  I’m fairly adept at acknowledging inevitabilities.”  He motions to the mound of clothes in his arms, then to the fitting room entrance.  “Well?”

 

“On one condition.”

 

“Pushy tonight, I see.  I quite like your,” he pauses for effect, lowering his voice, “spunk.”  I nearly choke, but he resumes.  “ _My_ birthday, _my_ rules, but I’ll listen.”

 

“Will you try on a pair of ripped skinny jeans?  Black,” I specify.  “I like your legs more than you think.”

 

“As you wish,” he says, and his smile’s as slow as the barest of blushes that spreads to his cheekbones – the one that only I can see. 

 

 

 

BAZ

 

I find the jeans, but I can’t resist waltzing through the formalwear department on my return trip, and I stumble across something even better.  A suit.  Not just any suit.  It’s Gucci.  Midnight navy.  With magenta roses.  It reminds me of Simon immediately and I’m just as completely and utterly infatuated with it as I am with him.  So much so that I don’t notice the presence behind me until a disembodied voice whistles past my ear.

 

“Exquisite, isn’t it?”  The voice is pleasant enough, but something about it makes me startle.

 

I twist around, and am face to face with a shop assistant.  He’s close, _too_ close, as if he’s never heard of personal space, but Crowley, he’s attractive.  His skin is reddish gold, the shade reminiscent of how I imagine mine would have looked if I hadn’t been Turned.  It’s dotted with moles, but of course they’re all wrong.    

 

“Silk lining.  Vintage-inspired fabric.  Distinct in its exclusivity,” he lists, reaching out to finger the sleeve of the jacket.  “Custom orders only, regrettably.  I imagine it’s because you have to have confidence to wear it.  Most don’t.”  He glances in the direction of the changing rooms.  “Please, excuse me,” he requests, and then he’s gone, sliding over the tiled floor.             

 

I revel in its loveliness for one moment longer, then follow.  I have something even more lovely to attend to.

 

 

 

SIMON

 

There’s a quiet knock at the door.  I’m hoping it’s Baz, so I can gift _him_ with the fashion show, but when I open it, there’s a man in a charcoal suit standing there instead.

 

“Doing well, sir?” 

 

“Sort of.”  He’s as tall as Baz (but nowhere near as good-looking) and I have to lean to peer around him, craning my neck around the doorframe.  “I’m looking for –”

 

“An endorsement?”  He nods approvingly, then reaches to smooth my collar, his touch lingering, and my magic all but recoils.  “Beautiful cut for a beautiful man.” 

 

I frown.  Is he hitting on me?  “No,” I manage.  “I’m looking for my boyfriend.”  And in the next breath, Baz is at his elbow, looking unruffled, his face calm and unmoving. 

 

Had he not heard him?

 

 

BAZ

 

I’m self-aware enough to know that I look good in just about everything, but jealousy is universally unflattering.  I chose to ignore the weighted press of it, gazing steadily at Simon instead.  I love him golden and sun-kissed, the summer to my perpetual winter.  I’d be a fool not to.  But I love him like this too, the familiar version of Simon from Watford’s greyer months.  His curls are darker, his tan long-faded, with just a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.  I could lose myself in looking at him all night.  He seems to know it with the way he smiles back at me, and the ponce of an assistant eventually clears his throat in an effort to break the mounting silence. 

 

“Can I be of any further assistance, sirs?”

 

I was already sold, but this little scene has sealed it.  Of _course_ I’m bloody confident with what I have, and I’ll prove it too.  “Please,” I answer curtly.  “Can we start the special order process?”

 

“Ah.  A man of good tastes, I see.  Certainly.”  He blinks twice, then slithers back to the sales floor, leaving us blessedly alone at last.   

 

“How do I look?”  Simon shifts his shoulders, shrugging into them, then fusses at his shirt sleeves, pulling them down over his wrists.  It’s evident he’s been accustomed to a lifetime of ill-fitting charity shop finds.  It’d be adorable if it wasn’t so fucking sad.

 

“Disgustingly gorgeous.  Unbearably so.”  I take his hands in mine, stilling them.  “Like usual, except now your clothing fits.”

 

He blushes and it’s the perfect match I knew it would be.  “Even the color?” 

 

“ _Especially_ the color.  Pink looks good on you.”

 

“ _You_ look good on me.”  He breaks into a lopsided grin and pulls me closer, and it’s all I can do not to rip his shirt to shreds.

 

I arch an eyebrow upwards.  “Are you hitting on _me_ , Snow?”   

 

“Is it working?”

 

“Obviously.”  I draw him into my arms, drumming my fingertips onto his sides.  The assistant can _look_ all he bloody wants to, but I’m the only one who gets to touch, and suddenly, it’s all I want to do.  I press a deliberate kiss to the line of his jaw and continue, “I’ve had a lot of fun dressing you up, but I think I’d rather take some clothes off of you now.”

 

He fumbles with his collar, flustered, tugging it away from his neck as his cheeks darken.  “I’d prefer not to sully the Grimm name on your birthday.”  He steps into me, bumping our knees together until I’m backed up to the start of the hallway.  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to visualize it from the other side of the door for now.  But,” he adds, swinging from the edge of the frame by his fingers and rocking up onto his toes, “I’ve an idea.  A warmup of sorts.”

 

“Foreplay?  How deviant.”  I spare a glance at the sales floor.  It’s still mercifully barren, but I imagine Tuesday nights likely aren’t popular with shoppers.  Or tourists, thank snakes, though Simon would be a sight I’d travel to see.  “I’m interested.  Elaborate.”

 

“Will…,” he begins, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip, “will you try on the jeans for me?”

 

What Simon wants, he gets (I’m appallingly weak for a vampire – Nicodemus would be ashamed of me), but that doesn’t mean I can’t negotiate.  “Only if you show me more.  That was a fairly condensed fashion show.  I’m going to need poses.”  He releases his lip and it twitches up for a moment before it’s gone with the shutting of the door.

 

“Oh, there’ll be more, alright,” he calls from the other side of it, and I know I’m fucked. 

 

How am I supposed to zip up the trousers like this? 

 

 

 

SIMON

 

It’s not my birthday, but Baz has given me my wish, and I’m not exactly sorry.  I can’t ever be when we’re like this.

 

He’s got me bent over the edge of his bed, face-down, with my arms bound above my head, my t-shirt wrapped around my wrists.  He bites at the lobe of my ear, his voice deep and rough as he tells me how he loves me, he loves me, he loves me as he pushes inside of me, my cock trapped and leaking onto the duvet.  I wriggle helplessly, grinding my hips down and into the mattress, but he pulls back to still me, his fingers digging into the sides of my arse.  They sear like a brand and I try to move again, in an effort to do _what_ I don’t even know, can’t even decide (as if I have that many options).  The only things I can think to do are to drive back against him, to take him in deeper, or to rut a god damned hole through the comforter to relieve some of the pressure in my aching groin, but his grip’s like a vice and I can’t fucking do either and now he’s fucking stopped entirely.  I cry out in a mixture of equal parts desire and frustration, and I’m not even embarrassed, I don’t even care, I just want something, whatever he’ll give me. 

 

“I want you to feel only me,” he says, and I already feel like I could burst, he’s wound me up so tightly.  He slides out, tortuously slow, until the ridge of his cock scrapes against the rim of my entrance and I’d launch backwards if I could, or take things into my own hands and do anything, anything at all, but I know he’ll only make it worse for me.  All I can do is to let out the moan I’ve been biting back and pray he’ll take pity on me.  And he must, because he sinks forward again in the smallest of increments until the whole of his length’s inside me and his bollocks are pressing full and heavy against my thighs.  I want to shift, want to settle into them, want to lean into their heat, but I don’t dare. 

 

It’s like he’s read my mind (wait, _can_ he?  I’m still not convinced it isn’t a vampire thing), because he commands, “Just me.  Just this.  I want you to feel only this when I come inside you.”  It takes everything in me not to react because he’s _still_ not fucking moving.  “Do you understand, love?”  And I can’t touch, I can’t move, I can’t do anything but just let him, and I’m dizzy with it, my breath coming in ragged pants. 

 

“I – yes.  Yes, darling,” I concede.  It’s hot underneath my face and I turn it to the side.  I need air, need relief, need for _something_ to happen and he must know it too, from the way his lips devour mine.  Thank Merlin I’m able to use my tongue and I thrash it against his desperately, stabbing and rolling it, doing whatever it takes to get him to fucking _get on_ with it, but he’s immovable until I finally growl, dragging my teeth against the softness of his lower lip.

 

And he’s thrusting into me slickly at last, nearly lifting me up with the force of it and it’s agonizing.  It’s ecstasy.  It’s too much.  It’s not enough.  But when he empties inside of me, hot and wet and pulsing, it’s just right.

 

I nearly come from it alone.  But, “Baz, please.  Please.  I need to – I need –”

 

He shuts me up with a feverish kiss.  It _burns_ and I need him on me, need the coolness of his skin on mine, and I’m coming undone until he finally, finally flips me over.  When he descends on me, all tongue and lips and flame-roughened hands, I’m finished. 

 

My magic spins and my vision’s gone black and when I next come to, he’s releasing my hands and dropping reverent kisses onto my wrists.  My pulse is hammering away in my neck like an advertisement.  There’s no way he can’t feel it.

 

I blink up at him and he leans over me to cradle my head in his palms, smoothing my curls away from my face.  “Simon, are you okay?” He questions, peering into my eyes as he strokes my forehead.  “Was that too much?”

 

“You honestly couldn’t tell?”  I’m not always good with words, but I figure my body does most of the talking for me, and if that fails, then my magic’s practically verbose.  I grin and tug him closer, basking in the afterglow of his magic twined in mine.  “And here I thought you were supposed to be top of the class, Pitch.”

 

“Just trying to be a loving and attentive boyfriend,” he intones with a roll of his eyes.  “My apologies.”  My arms have gone tingly and he brushes the blood back into them, trailing his fingers from my shoulders to my forearms.  “If that’s the sort of pillow talk you’re going to subject me to, then you give me no choice but to use your sock as a gag next time.”  I make a face, and he asks, “My sock, then?  Good choice.  Likely smells better.”

 

I whap him on the chest.  “You _wouldn’t_.”

 

“No.”  He smiles, taking my hand in his.  “I quite like it when you use your words.  Too much, probably.”  He groans, covering his face with it, but he presses a kiss into my palm.  “Think I could get off on that alone, if I’m honest.”

 

“I – yeah.  Me too.  You’ve no idea.”  Back at Watford, I’d dreaded him talking to me, but I can’t get enough of it now.  I reach for his arm and pull until we’re properly tangled together in the sheets.  “Happy Birthday, Bazzy,” I sing and then snort out, “Hope you enjoyed your gift.  There’s always more where that came from too.  It’s the strangest thing – the shops just never run out.”   

 

“Every day with you is a gift.”  He turns to look me in the eyes and my heart constricts, thumping painfully.  “But if you call me that one more time, I swear I’ll push you off the bed.”

 

It’s only later, when I’m on the precipice of sleep, my head on Baz’s chest and my leg slung around his hip, when I come to a realization.  Holidays and special occasions certainly seem to make Baz extra libidinous.  And although neither of us have any applicable heritage that I’m aware of, I dream about shamrocks, green beer and St. Patrick’s Day.


	2. 2

BAZ

 

Aleister Crowley, I’ve created a monster. 

 

Simon is (has always been, and likely, always will be, if we’re stating certainties) oppressively gorgeous, bafflingly good-natured and irresistibly special.  Naturally, this je ne sais quoi, this aura of attractiveness, extends to our cat too.  And while she may get her criminally good looks and sparkling personality from him, I’m convinced her elegant charm is all Pitch.  It’s only our third visit at the vet, but she’s so assured and collected, so regal and dignified, I’m unsurprised to find that she’s already amassed a following. 

 

Or so I’d thought. 

 

It’s been a bluster of a day right down to the weather, but the carrier’s secure in my arms as Simon holds the door open for us.  Once we’ve passed over the threshold, his hand grazes the inside handle, but a blast of wind snatches it out of his reaching grasp, ripping it and swinging it open.  The door thumps into the building’s exterior brick wall with a slam that reverberates so forcefully, I scan the ground for rubble. 

 

I didn’t feel his magic swell, but he might as well have cast **Open sesame** based off of the resulting stares.  Unlike me, Simon’s never had a flair for the deliberately dramatic and he freezes in the entryway, standing with his hands open and extended at his sides in silent apology.  He lifts his shoulders upwards in a half-shrug, his sheepish smile absurdly endearing.    

 

And that’s when it begins.  He’s caught their attention full-stop and the receptionist staff descends on him in droves, chittering and buzzing about him like a horde of locusts.  The smiles are shy and the flushes quite rosy and it’s all so completely and glaringly evident that the greetings are a touch too friendly, a bit too enthusiastic this time.  And Batty’s absolute beauty is unparalleled, would make anybody turn pink, but they’re not looking at her.  Or at me, either, for that matter.

 

I extract us from the crowd and onto the nearest wooden bench, balancing the carrier evenly on my lap as I wait.  And wait.  The mindless blathering amplifies, droning away in my eardrums as the scent of an intolerable floral perfume suddenly fills the air like a fresh bloom. 

 

Merlin, has someone _spritzed_ themselves? 

 

Simon eventually disentangles himself and sits beside me, his palm resting on my knee as he leans forward to unfasten the top compartment.  “Sorry it took me so long to check us in,” he murmurs, reaching to nudge his finger to Batty’s coal-black nose.  The top of her head pops out and she bumps her face into the base of his thumb in a shameless bid for attention.  He scratches the underside of her chin and she leans into it, unabashed in her adoration.  I’m fairly certain she’s inherited that particular quality from me.  “I was up there forever.”

 

I didn’t think it could be possible, but the stench morphs into something even more abominable as it wafts outwards, mingling with the sharp notes of animalic fear (vampire thing – I dread the vet more than Batty does, but not coming simply isn’t an option).  I try to focus on avoiding inhaling through my nose (it’s highly difficult when you’re not a natural born mouth breather like Simon).  “An arduously slow undertaking,” I agree, rubbing the tips of her ears as I take a shallow breath.  “Like being sent off to war, but with even more fanfare.  I was just beginning to fear you’d never return from the battlefield and that I’d have to adjust to life as a single parent.”

 

He just stares at me as if he doesn’t know how to respond, his chin cocked to the side like a golden retriever waiting to be patted on its furry skull.  I might be more concerned if this didn’t happen so regularly.  Batty takes the opportunity to curve up and into his suspended hand and he strokes her soundlessly, her chest rumbling in a purr. 

 

“How sweet,” the receptionist drips as she flounces from around the counter, edging closer.  She smells like a rose that’s been rolled in baby powder and set out in the sun for too long.  It’s a vicious assault to anyone with olfactories and my eyes prickle, then water, as Batty lets out a dainty sneeze.  Simon blesses her and Batty chirps back in response, standing to press her cheek to his face.  And it _is_ all so disgustingly cute, but the receptionist nearly trips over her own desire, brushing Simon’s bicep as she looks at Batty and simpers, “Tell me, princess, is daddy always this affectionate?”

 

Batty’s not a princess (she’s a goddess), and the answer is yes, but “I – uh, uhm,” he stammers as he gawps at me.  She should have just asked me if she wanted an actual answer.  At least I’m capable of stringing together a reply that doesn’t involving stuttering or meowing, although I may just hiss.

 

Simon finally manages an awkward bark of a laugh as a vet technician mercifully approaches.  Thank magic – this encounter was vexatious from the moment of its very inception and my eyes are still streaming.  “Batty?” she calls, tapping a pen against a clipboard as her eyes search the room.  When her gaze lands on Simon, she tucks a long strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear.  “I’ll take you back.”

 

I zip Batty back into her carrier and practically run down the hall and into the exam room.  I might have actually broken out into a sprint if I hadn’t been transporting precious cargo, but then again, maybe not.  That would indicate some level of being bothered about all of this, which I am most certainly not. 

 

Well.

 

I know Simon loves me.  I really do.  And I’d never doubt him.  I trust him with everything.  I’d be a fool not to, with all we’ve been through.  There’s been death and magic, renewal and loss, blood and hope.  But.

 

But people don’t always assume we’re together (what with being two blokes and all) and I’m only human (maybe – or vampire, whatever).  _My_ name might as well be Batty with the way all this brazen flirting is driving me up the fucking wall.  Even though Simon never ever indulges it intentionally, he also never assumes people would be interested in him until it’s too late and their hand is on his forearm or they’re angling into him and batting their eyelashes.

 

Simon says people look at me too, but I don’t notice.  I’m too busy looking at him.   

 

And it’s more than just looking, isn’t it? 

 

I understand why.  _Obviously_.  He’s stunning of course: all strong, broad shoulders, cinnamon freckles and golden-brown curls, but he’s approachable too.  My smile’s like the flash of his sword – a warning.  His is still so easy despite all of the shit he’s had to trudge through.  The rational part of me says that has to be it – that he lures people in by just being _him_ , by being so very undeniably _Simon_ , but I am also a mage. 

 

And I just can’t help but think that his magic coming back has had something to do with it.

 

Before he’d given it up, Simon’s sticky green-smoked magic had _compelled_ – it had sizzled and it had glowed and it had _pulled_.  It drew others to him like moths fluttering to a dancing flame.   

 

I’d wanted to burn in it. 

 

I almost had.

 

I’m still flammable, but his magic is much different now.  It doesn’t cover like a rolling band of thick smog, doesn’t spill out in dizzying fumes like a cracked and leaking exhaust.  It’s settled and balanced – steady.  But I still wonder if this is some residual effect, if his magic was once so potent that there’s still some lingering enchantment there.  And if I’m right (which I nearly always am), I’d played a (body) part (we both know which one) in his magic returning. 

 

Combine this all with the fact that he no longer dresses like a ratty, tatty street urchin (also courtesy of me – I am apparently an imbecilic maker of my own miseries), and it’s no wonder they don’t all incinerate.

 

I’ve realized I’m not Dracula after all.  I’m Victor Frankenstein. 

 

 

 

SIMON

 

He’s not paying attention.  I’ve obsessed over Baz long enough to know the signs.

 

First, there’s the meticulous examination of his fingernails, and when he’s appraised them to his satisfaction, there’s the unfocused glare.   If I didn’t know him well, I’d assume he was intently studying a framed poster outlining the dangers of pet obesity, but I do, and besides, Batty’s as long and lean as he is.    

 

They’re so much alike.

 

She’s fearless, for starters.  She’s positively (pawsitively?) brilliant when it comes to her vaccines.  She sits calm and poised, ready to confront the challenge without so much as a twitch of her whiskers.  She’s never scared and she doesn’t ever back down, even if I’m cross with her (it doesn’t last long, how could it with that face?) – just like Baz. 

 

Sometimes it’s hard to tell where she ends and he begins.  When he spends the night, I wake to her draped over the top of his pillow, a ridiculously adorable extension of his ink-black hair.  Speaking of, don’t even get me started on all the preening.  The ritualistic extravagance of their grooming routines is unmatched.  When he showers (still takes the prat a bloody half hour, though I really can’t complain as I join him more often than not), she settles into the steam, licking herself from paws to tail.  At least Baz doesn’t cough up hairballs, thank Merlin.   

 

If he’s vertical, she’s tripping over his feet, warbling a meow at him until he picks her up and tucks her under his chin and to his heart.  If he’s horizontal, she wedges herself between his legs to rest her head on his thigh.  I reckon she might have learned that one from me. 

 

She’s infatuated with Baz. 

 

I think it runs in the family. 

 

They’re so excruciatingly cute that I sometimes feel a twinge in my chest when I watch them together.  Last week, he’d had to wake up early for an exam and had carried her back to bed with him, rocking her in his arms like a baby as he’d hummed her a lullaby.  We’d had takeaway for dinner and I’d tried asking Penny if she thought I might have GERD, but she’d just shaken her head and laughed, then told me not to blame the chicken tikka masala.

 

Anyway, the real giveaway is, the main reason as to how I know he’s more present in his head than he is in this room, is that he’s left me to make small talk with the vet tech.

 

And I’ve been making puns. 

 

Baz _loathes_ puns.  He calls them ‘the laziest form of humor there is’ and ‘not punny’.  When he gets like this, all silence and stares, it’s my fail-safe method of testing his level of awareness.  If he were truly listening, he would be punctuating my feeble attempts at jokes with groans. 

 

I’ve started small.  (First, “How is Batty today?”  “She’s _feline_ good.”  Then, “Her lungs sound clear – no abnormalities there.”  “That’s _paw_ -esome.”  And just now, “Nice shiny coat.”  “ _Purr_ -ety, right?”)  The vet tech probably thinks I’m a total berk (she wouldn’t be wrong, exactly), as she’s only given me half-hearted, thin-lipped smiles in response thus far, but I don’t really mind.  Anything that gets a rise out of Baz is worth it, even if it’s partially at my own expense. 

 

“Right,” she echoes, trailing her fingers along Batty’s spine as her eyes lift to meet mine.  They’re grey, but they’re not anything like Baz’s – they’re nowhere near as striking.  His are like the sea, deep blues and greens swirling like currents of moving water.  Hers remind me of pavement after the rain has stained it, the flat shade reminiscent of when his eyes had temporarily changed colors after he’d spent weeks trapped in a coffin.  Fucking numpties.  “Very _purr_ -ety.”

 

I’ve been looking over at him for ages and I swear I can see Baz incline his head slightly.  _Purr_ -fect.  We may have been sworn enemies at Watford, but provoking him is more satisfying than ever (mainly because he’s so cute when he’s exasperated and partially because the punishments are much more interesting now that swinging fists and venomous insults are off the table).  Now might finally be my chance to get the reaction I’ve been angling for.

 

“Okay,” she concludes as she brushes her hair back from her face, “you know the drill with the vaccines.  Any issues, let us know immediately.  Otherwise, she has a clean bill of health.”

 

“I hope,” I start, as I try to wrangle my expression into a serious one, “you’re not kitten me right meow.”

 

“Never!  That would be…,” she pauses (pawses?), her eyes creasing in a giggle, “a _cat_ -astrophe.”

 

A heavy sigh comes from the opposite side of the room. 

 

Baz is back.

 

“Baz,” I announce, raising my voice, “did you hear?  She’s an ideal weight – there’s no need for diet tips.”  I wish he’d come closer.  My magic has to be pawing at him.

 

“Plenty.”  He turns at last, his gaze hollow.  It’s likely an effect from his visual attack on the wall – I’m shocked he hasn’t succeeded at boring a hole through it.  (Is that a vampire thing?)  “I heard plenty.”   

 

 

BAZ

 

Fucking hell. 

 

As if the advances weren’t horrid enough on their own, being held hostage to flirty banter via pun is a waking nightmare.  At this point, I’d willingly dive back into a coffin for six more weeks. 

 

See?  Dark humor and sarcasm are clearly far superior forms of humor. 

 

Judging by the grin he’s giving me, Simon’s so gloriously stupid he doesn’t even know what he’s been doing either, doesn’t know he’s been driving some poor employee crazy with his curls and his moles and his aimless heavy-handed witticisms.  I want to kiss the smirk off of his face, want to show her he – no, he doesn’t belong to me.  I wouldn’t want him to.  I want him to be free, for him to choose me back willingly. 

 

Which is why I don’t understand _this_.  Is this yet another vampire thing?  I’ve heard talk of vampires who keep humans as… play things to drain, to control and possess, but the thought alone makes me vaguely nauseated.  And he’s looking at me like I’m the only other person in the room, so I shouldn’t even feel threatened, which I’m not.  We’re bonded by our _magics_ , for Crowley’s sake.  I just – I don’t know.

 

I don’t have a problem with him being bisexual (he _thinks_ , he still hasn’t gotten it sorted officially).  Otherwise, we’d never even be an _us_ , but it does complicate an already uncomfortable situation.  Instead of worrying about other blokes, I have to fret about birds too, and I just can’t compete with them.  I don’t even know how, don’t even know much about women romantically at all (when I’d told Simon I was completely gay, I hadn’t been exaggerating).  Our dalliance had only ever been carved out of my own twisted desires, but Wellbelove, with her frills and silks, had always remained an enigma.  I knew what it took to interest her, but I’d never understood any of the other motivations in her head other than my own presumption of her inclination for drama.

 

And life would be so much easier for him if he were to date a woman.  He’s been through enough already.  Being with another man isn’t all rainbows and sunshine – it’s being _aware_ , exhaustingly, of everything and all the time.  Of the differences in you, of the differences in society.  Of the ever-changing list of cans and can nots and maybes depending on where you’re at and who you’re with.  It can be… a lot.

 

And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.  I couldn’t.  But maybe he would.   

 

These are the dark arguments my brain makes for me until my heart screams away at it enough to make my head come to its senses.  But then there are moments like –

 

“Cute cat,” the vet technician observes, beaming at Simon from underneath fluttering eyelashes, “just like her daddy.”

 

I want to roar, want to growl, want to rip the bloody poster on pet obesity from off of the wall and tear it into a million jagged little pieces, but instead.  Instead.  I stamp.  Stamp the feeling down and away until I’m unaffected, until the mask of my face displays nothing.  There _will_ be nothing to see here – no distasteful scene, no slit eyes or flaring nostrils, and I don’t even need magic to do it.

 

“I know, right?”  Simon agrees obliviously, twisting to smile back at me, and it knifes right through the blueprints of the doubts I’ve worked so tirelessly to design.  “He’s the best cat dad.  I’m lucky.”  He turns to Batty, scratching her cheek.  “ _We’re_ lucky, aren’t we, girl?”  She trills in reply, her green eyes sliding closed in contentment, and it’s more than I deserve, more than I can possibly bear.  My undead heart wrenches in my chest, burning up the length of my esophagus until it lodges itself in my throat.  It’s been happening so often lately that I should probably get around to asking Fiona if she thinks it might be reflux.

 

“I – excuse me.”  The technician clears her throat, her grin faltering as she fumbles for her clipboard.  “I’ll be back with the charges.”

  

“Check _me_ – uh, us – _out_ ,” he calls after her, squinting into the foreground as he shakes his head.  “Almost worked.”

 

Oh, it did.  I’ll gladly check him out, atrocious puns be damned.

 

 

 

SIMON

 

I don’t know where Baz goes in his head sometimes.  I’d much rather have him here with me.

 

“Please, I hope you’re quite done with the puns.  Think of my injured sense of humor,” he beseeches, placing a hand on his heart with a grimace.  “Simon, my love, it hurts.”  I’m tempted to keep going, but he did use the magic words (please, Simon and love).  They’re not actually spoken with magic, but something in me recognizes it all the same. 

 

“I’ve got you right where I want you, Pitch,” I respond, smirking up at him.  I could leave it there, could continue tormenting him, but our truces have always been mutually beneficial and Baz is usually open to negotiations (after years of low blows and cheap shots, he’s been unexpectedly fair).  It’s how we’d settled the Great Window Debate: if the window is open, Baz gets to spoon me, which isn’t something I’d ever fight him on to begin with, and also, he’s an ideal temperature, like the cool side of a pillow on a summer night.  I might as well _try_ to get something out of him in exchange.  “ _Fur_ -tunately for you, I’m listening.  And open to bribes.”

 

He folds his arms across his chest and raises an eyebrow.  “Name your price, Snow.”

 

Simple.  “Foot massage.”

 

“Deal.”  He leans across the metal exam table, setting his elbows on it with his head framed in his hands.  A lock of midnight-black hair falls into his eyes and he almost looks innocent, but then his teeth flash and he demands with a snarl, “Now, no more, or I’ll _cat_ -egorically end you.”  There’s no fire in it, at least not like the old days.  It’s long been replaced with something else, something that burns all the same.  He straightens with a scoff that ends in a laugh.  “I would have given you one anyway.”

 

He probably would have, but my feet are aching from practicing in my new football boots and I’d prefer a guarantee, especially as Baz doesn’t break his promises.  “I know,” I say, dragging a finger across the steel surface for Batty to chase.  “I was letting you get off easy.”

 

“Ah.”  He nods, then shows more teeth.  “Will you?” 

 

I blink up at him and I’m too slow.  Batty’s fantastically well-behaved and you’d think she was an incarnation of Bastet from the way Baz raves about her, but she’s still a kitten.  She pounces, chomping on my fingertip with needlepoint teeth.  I draw it back sharply, but she hasn’t even broken the skin.  

 

“Alright?” he asks, taking my hand to examine it.  She’s left little indentation marks and he rubs at them.

 

“I’ve fought the _Humdrum_ , Baz,” I remind him as if he’d somehow forgotten.  “I think I can handle playtime with our kitten.”  She places a paw on my other hand in a nonverbal apology; it’s exactly why I can’t ever be mad at the pair of them for long.  “Besides,” I continue, “she’s so cute when she bites.”

 

“Kinky,” he drawls, pressing a kiss to my fingertip.  “I didn’t realize you were so into fangs.”

 

He’s looking at me as if I’m prey. 

 

I am, aren’t I? 

 

Capture is certain.  There is no escape. 

 

And he’s the predator, his canines glinting in the light. 

 

And something in me loves it. 

_Fuck._

I pinch my lip between my teeth and swallow.

 

 

BAZ

 

Batty yawns and retreats to her carrier.  She’s bored with this scene.  But when I see the expression on his face, I’m not.

 

I’m just getting started.

 

 

 

SIMON

 

Hours ago, Baz had been perched atop my desk chair, lost in an essay as he’d leafed through a stack of notes, pausing occasionally to suck his fangs in thought.  He’s seated there again now, but this time he’s completely starkers, wearing nothing more than the same look of deep contemplation as he watches me peel off my shirt.  I hadn’t had a plan – I’d kicked down the door after freeing Batty from her carrier and thrown him right into my chair as I’d used **Out of fashion** to spell his clothes off (Fiona had taught me that one while Baz had pretended to be horrified at the reality of his aunt having a sex life).  Baz never uses it (I’m not certain if it’s due to the source or if it’s because his approach is all teasingly slow where mine is more impulsively impatient), but I think it has its moments.  Like the present.

 

“Well, well, look at you.” I unbutton my trousers and eye him appreciatively, lifting a finger to the side of my chin in appraisal as I let out a low whistle.  “You should study like this all the time.”  He really should, although we’d probably never get any schoolwork done. 

 

“Somehow I don’t think Bunce would be as keen on the idea,” he remarks dryly, the corner of his mouth turning upwards.  He’s hard already, but he doesn’t make an effort to cover himself, just digs his elbows into the armrests, settling back as if on display, as if it’s the most natural position for him to be in, which I suppose it is.  Nothing could be more natural than us here together, like this. 

 

“Can we not…,” I appeal as I balance on one leg, fingers scrabbling to untie the laces of my trainer, “…talk about Penny, when you’re…”

 

“When I’m what?”  He shifts into his shoulders and gazes at me imperiously from above his too-high nose.

 

“ _You_ know.”  I attempt to wave in his direction and trip over the leg of my trousers instead.  He snorts, sniggering into his fist, and my eyes narrow as my compliment changes into a complaint.  “Yeah, _you know_.  When you’re sitting there being such an unhelpful git.”

 

“You’re the one who flung me into a chair and disrobed me via magic,” he counters coolly.  “I assumed you were giving me a show.”  His hair’s fallen into his eyes and he flicks it out of his face, then drums his fingers along the armrests.  “And what an interesting one it’s been too.”  His grin stretches wider.

 

I throw my pants at him and the laughter on his lips dies a quick death. 

 

If only I’d known how to shut him up like this back at Watford. 

 

The swift reversal of his formerly smug demeanor is almost comical.  “Simon, will you just get over here?” he beckons earnestly, patting the seat of the chair as if I’m Batty and he expects me to jump up beside him.  I pluck my socks off (because: weird) and he adds, “Bring your wand too.”

 

I smirk.  “Which one?” 

 

“Funny,” he gripes, wrinkling his nose.  “I thought we’d left the dad jokes back with the vet.”

 

I’d been toeing at my trouser pocket in a lazy attempt at retrieving my wand, but at this, I bend over in retaliation, presenting him with a deliberate view of my backside.  “I’m sorry,” I huff, snatching it up, but then oops, I drop it, and I lower my hands leisurely to the floor again.  “Did you want me to come over there or not?” 

 

“If you want to come at all, I’d highly recommend it,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

 

I stomp across the rug, his sea-grey eyes flashing storms as I draw closer.  “Shall I fetch your slippers for you next?” I question, voice honeyed with sarcasm as I level my wand at this chest.  “How about the newspaper?”

 

He seizes it, then twirls it between two fingers.  If I did that, he’d likely lecture me about proper wand safety, the arsehole.  He halts suddenly and the wand stills as he lifts his chin for effect and retorts, “I’d much rather you _sit_.”  He casts the familiar preparation spells and his magic’s spreading through me, my façade burning down to bare brick and bones. 

 

Baz has always been like his magic: fiery and fervid, and this part of him, this thing between us, is no different.  Sometimes it’s slow with words whispered into my skin, his fingertips tracing the outline of my face, promises sworn and sealed with his lips, coals and embers.  Other times the flames smolder, jumping higher, and then _sometimes_ – sometimes it blazes into a blistering wildfire and I’m dizzy off the smoke as it claws at my insides.  And it’s fucking _hot_ when he’s like this, sharp-tongued with a slick cock, relentless with his demands as his magic devours the space between us.  And I can’t help it – I’m so obedient. 

 

I sit.

 

I’m balanced on his upper thigh, my back to his torso as I crane my neck to reach him.  His mouth is already there, waiting, and his tongue meets mine, turning and tangling in heated passes until I’m melting into him, his arms drawing me closer as his erection rests heavy on my hip.  “So close, but…,” his voice is deep in my ear as he practically purrs, “I was hoping you’d sit somewhere else.”

 

His hand pumps the length of my cock and I’m already dazed, my brain on fire, every neuron and synapse tingling, but I know enough to realize that there’s not room for the both of us here.  “But we can’t fit,” I protest.

 

“I’ll always make room for you, darling.”  He flips back the armrests in one fluid motion, his smile wolfish.  “When you sit _on_ me, that is.”

 

Right.  I’d forgotten they were adjustable.  Fuck, I can’t think, not about anything other than him, and I try for an equally taunting response, but I want _it_ – want _him_ too much and it shows, transparent and paper-thin.  “Yes, master,” I tease, but the effort’s a failed one because there’s absolutely no bite in it at all.  “I’ll get right on it.”  (I will.)  (I can’t even pretend.)  (It’s a disaster.)  And since the endeavor’s pathetically hopeless, my mouth betrays me one last time with, “Anything else, dear?”   

 

“Maybe.”  He passes me my wand, the undersides of his fingers lingering on mine.  “Feeling up to any of your other tricks?” he inquires smoothly, his eyes half-lidded, and I know what he wants.  It’s nearly palpable – his magic’s sizzling in the air like steam after a summer rain.  

 

But I’m not going to let him have it so easy.

 

“Hah, _hah_!” I crow, pointing at myself.  “And _I’m_ the kinky sod, am I?”  I jab him in the ribs as he looks away.

 

“Am not,” he denies, running a self-conscious hand through his widow’s peak as if he isn’t lying through his fangs. 

 

“Shall we view the tally, then?” I propose, casting **For the record**.  A scroll materializes under my wand and it’s just as I’d thought.  I beam, shoving it in his scowling face.  “Let it be known that Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch has initiated dragon sex at a ratio of 3 to 1.”

 

“Fuck the record,” he snaps, puncturing the parchment with a fist as it rolls up and away.

 

“Don’t let it have all the fun.”  I conjure my wings and tail, swinging my legs around his.  I shift forward onto my knees, and his hands are at my arse, spreading me open as I lower myself onto him.  “Fuck me instead.”  His magic stretches me wide, curling through me in a heady haze until I fall into him, my palms braced on his chest.  

 

We’re already breathing heavily, panting into each other’s mouths, and I’m light-headed off the taste of his exhale, but I need more, always more, and I tilt my chin to close the gap.  His fingers are tugging at my hair as he sucks on my bottom lip and he feels so _good_ , so _thick_ , like his magic’s the only thing that can fill me, and I roll my hips up, but –

 

“I – Baz.”  I point my toes, and nothing.  The prat must have raised the chair when he’d been composing his essay earlier, as if three inches of height difference automatically makes him a bloody giant.  “I can’t reach.”

 

“Oh, but I can, Simon,” he grins wickedly, squeezing his grip on my arse, “and I’m going to fuck you until you soar.”

 

I don’t know if my wings or my cock twitch more, but it’s all I can do not to plummet backwards and my tail reacts, winding to grip around his calf.  _Fuck_.  I’m fucking _in_ for _it_.  And I want whatever it is that he’s going to give me so badly that I can’t even keep control of myself, can’t even function.  I bring my hands to my face, the rising heat warming my palms.  I should have known.  Baz _always_ has a strategy and I’ve _always_ admired his brilliant fucking mind.  “Is this all a part of your plot?” I question.  He doesn’t bother to refute it, just joins his lips to mine in a kiss that’s so light I can feel his smile.  “Happy now?”   

 

“Actually, could you –”

 

“I am _not_ getting up,” I growl, arching my back as I hook my legs around his hips, using whatever leverage I can get to sink down deeper.  I _dare_ him to make me move.  Now that I’m here, I’m not doing any-fucking-thing else other than this.  No way. 

 

He groans in frustration, and I feel the scratch of his fingernails on my skin as he drags me upwards, my wings expanding as the swollen head of his cock throbs against my opening.  “I don’t want you to,” he professes, holding me aloft.  He looks into my eyes like there’s something more, like there’s something else there, but then he’s inching me back down, bit by bit, until he presses his forehead to mine.  “I never want you to leave.” 

 

I won’t.  Not ever.

 

“Then what?”  He’s got me right where he wants me, naked in his lap, arse brimming with his cock, as if whatever he wants is really a question.

 

He leans back, leering at my neglected erection.  It’s tall and aching, leaking from the slit and onto his groin in drops.  “Wank yourself.”

 

“Really?”  My jaw’s hanging open.  He’d likely be taking the piss if he didn’t want this so much. 

 

“Really,” he echoes, curving an eyebrow in challenge.  “I want you,” he emphasizes, dipping his index finger into the wet mess on his stomach, “to fuck yourself,” he adds, trailing the fluid onto the head of my cock and twisting it down to the base, “at the same pace I’m fucking you.”  He parts his lips, taking the finger into his mouth, and I’m already moaning, writhing pitifully on his cock at just the fucking thought of it.

 

Well.

 

This isn’t the sort of thing I’m used to, pulling off in front of him, but I really don’t fucking care.

 

I wrap my fingers around myself.

 

He draws me up, and my hand mimics, following suit, then retreats downward as he drives me lower again.  And again and again, high and low, high and low, as he slides me obscenely slowly against every centimeter of his length.  I match him thrust for thrust, my wrist jerking on the downstroke as he grinds me into him.  Something’s building, sparking inside of me, and I need it to be faster, need –

 

“So eager,” he interrupts, “but I need you much slower.  Match me.”  He lifts me up and it’s long and it’s languid and it’s torture and I push on my cock with such force that my eyelids close tightly and I’m crying out, my thighs shaking from underneath his hands.

 

“Ugh, Baz, faster – please, fuck.  I can’t – can’t stand it.  Need to… I need you -”

 

“- I want that too, love.  More than anything.  But first,” he stresses, “I want you to use your other hand.”  I’d been using it to clutch at his shoulder, but he’s holding me so securely now, I know I can’t fall (he won’t let me – I’d trust him with anything).  I remove it, making a show of skating it down my body, stopping its descent only when it passes my other hand.  I look up at him as I cradle my bollocks in my palm, pinching and rolling them together as he watches on.   And fuck, all I want is relief as the pressure rushes through me, bringing my breaths to jagged rasps as I tighten around him with every wave.  He _has_ to respond to this. 

 

Thank Merlin he does. 

 

“You’re doing so well, darling.  Should we speed things up a bit?”  He picks up the pace, his erection moving slickly in my arse and I bite my lip to avoid letting out a whimper.  “You’re so fucking sexy when you touch yourself.  Do you know that, Simon?”

 

“I – you, you’re so, ugh, so fucking fit.”  His violin-calloused hands are rough as they press into my skin, but it’s so right, so _Baz_.  “I want you on me, want you in me, want you.  It’s all I think about when I –”

 

“- I love you.  You,” he punctuates, raising his hips to meet me as he hauls me onto his length.  “I love fucking you.  The way you feel –”

 

“- I love it.  I love you.  I love this.  Love it when you’re in control,” I babble, my wings fluttering. I pound on my erection mercilessly as he slams me down, hitting all the right spots, and I’ve lost it now, I’ve really lost it, I’d tell him anything, _do_ anything.

 

“It’s agonizing,” he sighs, and I’m breathless too, my body on sensory overload from the push of his cock in my arse and the pull of my hand on my cock.  “I can’t decide if I want to watch you or touch you myself.  Could spend a lifetime figuring it out.”

 

“ _Please_.”  That’s all I want.  “Baz, I – I’m gonna,” I start, but my wings rip out from behind me, flapping as I spurt against his chest, and I’m flying, spilling out and over my fingers in hot waves.  Maybe it’s the beating of my wings, or maybe there’s something in our magics swirling together, but we’re nearly off the floor, the chair tipping onto an odd angle.  My tail lashes out and around the leg, anchoring us to the ground as he stills, pulsing fast and firm deep within me like a runaway heartbeat.

 

“I –”

 

“- Know,” I finish.  I slump against him, the blood still roaring in my ears as he softens inside of me, and despite all the mind-blowing, deeply satisfying wild and animalistic shagging we’ve been having, sometimes this is the part I like best, the part where he takes me in his arms and presses gentle kisses to my temples, my eyelashes, my neck.  His magic envelopes mine and it’s all I need, he’s all I need, and the world outside doesn’t exist, it’s reduced to the two of us as we lean into each other.  Sometimes I think magic isn’t in incantations or the wave of a wand – it’s in this, and I would have had it in him anyway even if mine hadn’t returned. 

 

But some spells wear off more quickly than others and he rises, my legs still wound around him as he walks me to the bed.  He tucks my wings in, folding his body around mine as he brushes his fingers through my curls, his nails grazing my scalp.  If I were a cat, I’d be purring.

 

“Ready for that foot massage, love?” He whispers into my neck.  My tail comes up to poke at his arm and he wraps it around his palm, stroking it with his thumb.

 

“No – not yet.  Stay with me a little first.”  He settles in closer, resting his chin on my shoulder.  It’s times like these that I can’t believe I’ve ever gotten this lucky – that I’m even capable of being this happy after all the miseries I’ve endured, and it swims through my veins like a warm current.  “Aren’t your arms tired anyway?” I ask.  They’ve been lifting me into the air for however long it’s been, and I’m not exactly light. 

 

“One of the few perks of being a vampire.”  He laughs into my skin.  “It’s an even trade, really.  I may not be alive, but at least you can reap the benefits of my super-human strength.”

 

“Don’t be a tosser.”  I pull his arm closer, linking my fingers in his.  “You _are_ alive.”  He is.  I should know.  I can feel the thump of his heart against my back, even if it is slow.  I don’t care how many times I have to tell him – I’ll say it again and again until he believes me.

 

He squeezes my hand as his lips find the mole on my neck.  “I’m most alive when I’m with you.”

 

And I realize later on, when Baz’s thumb is jammed into my instep, that today isn’t a holiday.  And unless I’ve forgotten (likely, but Baz would have taken great and spiteful pleasure in reminding me), it isn’t a special occasion either.  But he pulls on my toes and the thought’s out of my head as quickly as it had entered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Batty is heavily inspired by my cat. He had some health problems that (thankfully) were corrected, but he had to spend a lot of time at the vet. As a result, he truly doesn't mind being there and he's always fawned over. (Unlike my other cat, who is a crying menace - bless him).


	3. 3

BAZ

 

Spring’s in the air like a let-out sigh and we’ve been drinking it in before it eventually buttons itself up again.  It’s been a bloody tease these past few days, here and then gone – waxing and waning like the cratered crescents of the moon.  But the sun had been out today and I didn’t care if it’d stung – it had thawed everything in its wake, including me, and I’d felt warm and alive (two sensations relatively foreign to vampires).  I’d fully intended on chasing it to the end, like extracting the last few drops of alcohol from a glass when the lights flash off at closing time.    

 

Which is probably how we wound up here: three gin and tonics deep and driven inside by the cold of the sunset.  And it’s likely the liquor, but there’s still heat radiating inside of me. 

 

Especially when I look over at Simon.

 

He’s flushed and fuzzy, his eyes sloping shut in a prolonged blink as he grins at me from across the bar.  His hand’s tangled in his curls and his lips are parted and he’s the most gloriously beautiful thing I’ve ever seen (as usual).  There are exactly five new freckles that have bloomed to life on his face and I fight the urge to kiss them all, right now.  I could sip him in all night and he must truly have me intoxicated because I think about actually doing it, about leaning closer to –

 

I’m separated from the thought when a full glass is deposited in front of him. 

 

“Sorry,” Simon acknowledges, glancing up with a slow shake of his head, “but I think you’ve made a mistake.  I’m still working on this one,” he motions to his drink.  “I didn’t order –”

 

“- Oh no,” the bartender replies with a wink.  “This is meant for you.  Compliments from the gentleman in the green shirt.”

 

 

 _Bloody buggering hell_ , not this shit again.  I don’t want to see what he looks like, I really don’t (it’s better for my sanity if I can’t compare myself), but it’s like driving past the aftermath of a car crash and my head swivels involuntarily to take in the scene.  Of course he’s good-looking (they all are – it’s brutally unfair), his skin tawny and sun-kissed, but with a disappointing lack of freckles.  He knows it too, the knob head.  I can tell – it’s written all over the flirtatious smile he casts in our direction; is evident in the cheeky waggle of his fingers.

 

“What?” Simon slants forward, squinting as he surveys the stretch of barstools.  “But I don’t know him.  Why would he…”

 

“That’s the point,” she intones meaningfully with a patient smile, and I love him, but Simon must surely be the biggest fool that’s ever lived and the addition of mixed drinks doesn’t exactly help matters.  “He wants to know you.” 

 

My fangs descend at the implication, flooding my mouth as if they sense a throat in need of ripping.  I press my lips together with purpose instead, then raise my glass to drain it.  I drink until the raging desire to suck the offender dry dissipates, until my thirst is sated, and it’s not as satisfying as the tang of blood, but the sharpness of it will do.  It burns like a reminder. 

 

For all the times this happens, it’s this I can’t forget.  There is nothing – nothing at all to be envious of.  I’m the only one.  The only one who _knows_.  I know the planes of Simon’s body, the crooked twist of his fingers in the sheets, the way he arches up off of the bed when my lips touch his hipbones, the exact weight of him hard and dripping on my tongue, the pitch of the moans and groans he makes as I move inside him.  And that all could be enough, but there’s _more_.  There’s his heart and his mind and his magic and the way it melds with mine.  Any idiot with eyes can see he’s attractive, but I know the rest, know what makes him _Simon_ : his dreams, his fears, his braveness, his loyalty.  

 

And it’s not always as simple as remembering, but sometimes he makes it easier.

 

“Oh.  _Oh_.”  His eyes widen and he waves the glass away with a lazy flick of his wrist.  “I already have someone who knows me.”  He tips his head in my direction and his curls tumble over his ear.  “But thanks.”

 

She retreats and Simon turns to me with a roll of his eyes.  “Wanker.  I’m clearly with you.”  He draws in a breath, letting it build in his cheeks until he huffs it out in a noisy exhale.  “I didn’t even _do_ anything.  I’ve just been sitting here existing.”

 

“I know, love.  You don’t have to,” I say, because it’s true.  It doesn’t matter.  He could be watching paint dry and some sad sack would still sidle up alongside him and chat him up about their preference of gloss finishes – anything just to have an opening to talk with him.  He’s been staring into the depths of his glass and I nudge at his foot.  “You don’t even realize how fit you are.”

 

His eyes lift to meet mine and they’re anything but boring.  He shrugs, smiling small and shy and the room’s spinning in circles around me as he says, “Well, I only fit with you.” 

 

“Oi!”  Fiona emerges from behind us, smacking him across the head as he throws up a delayed hand in defense.  “Truly touching shit, but you could’ve given it to me, you numpty.”  She tsks, clucking her tongue as she taps her fingers against the metal of the bar.  “You boys have a lot to learn.  Knew I was coming and yet, the pair of you, sozzled and making moony-eyes at each other, with not a single sip waiting for me.  The disrespect.” 

 

She rocks onto the toes of her combat boots, hailing the bartender with the shake of her fist.  “Now,” she swings around, arching a conspiratorial eyebrow, “who wants a whisky?”

 

I tilt my jaw in a silent question.  Simon had initially planned on making it an early night and we both know what will happen if he drinks dark liquor. 

 

He nods, passing a glass to me, his fingers fastening around mine.  The cords in his throat tighten as he swallows and I have to look away.  I’m fucked enough as is. 

 

Crowley, do I need a cigarette.

 

 

 

SIMON

 

“Have you seen Baz?”  I crane my neck to glance back at Fiona.  I’ve been trying to order waters from the bartender and it’s been taking so long that I’m starting to wonder if there’s some sort of detector under the counter that alerts the staff to cheapskate requests.  If this place was run by a mage I honestly might consider it more seriously, but it’s as Normal here as a rainy day in London.

 

“How should I know?  Probably went and got himself kidnapped again, the plonker.”  She attempts to smooth a stripe of crimped hair behind her ear, but her hand misses and her earrings jangle.  “ _You_ can go and rescue the fair maiden this time.  I’ve got bigger fish to fry these days than fucking numpties.”  She barks out a raucous laugh, slamming down her drink.  The collision sends her wobbling on her barstool and she mutters a curse under her breath.  It smells like stale cigarettes and leather infused with oak and it’s making me see double, but I attempt to right her as she beats me off with slashing fingers.

 

And I swear that sensor has got to be a real thing at this point – I’m positive of it now.  Our drunken fumbling has caught the attention of our bartender and she doesn’t even ask, just automatically retrieves a tall glass and starts spouting water into it as she surveys us from the sides of her eyes. 

 

“You sure you don’t want one, Fi?”  I sling an arm around her and she tosses it off, but her lips purse together in a begrudging hint of a smile.  “Another drink and you’ll fall right off the wagon and onto the floor.” 

 

“Oh, piss off,” she snarls, her mouth twisting into a sneer.  At moments like these, the family resemblance is unmistakable, though Baz is (obviously) much more attractive when he’s angry in that slightly terrifying sexy-vampire-that’s-about-to-kill-you kind of way of his.  “You’re as trolleyed as I am.”  

 

“At least I’m trying not to be,” I point out.  “ _You’ll_ be sorry in the morning.”

 

“Don’t care,” she sings, and the fight’s gone out of her as she rests her chin in her hands and closes her eyes.  Liner is smudged along the corners.  “Won’t be awake to see it.”  I don’t doubt it.  She’s not likely to emerge from her lair until at least sundown tomorrow.  Baz tells me not to be an idiot, that vampires aren’t nocturnal and that Pitches just need their (beauty) sleep (I have to haul him out of bed most mornings – it clearly must be what he’s trying to achieve even though he doesn’t need any more bloody help), but if half-vampire was a thing, I’d think she might just be one. 

 

“Suit yourself, but you should.  Really.”  I take a self-indulgent sip from my water and place an identical glass in front of her with a satisfied smirk.  She smiles in return, suspiciously sweet until she shoves it, sending it sloshing away and over the rim. 

 

“You’re impossible,” I scoff, blotting up the spill with a mess of napkins.  “The both of you.”

 

“But you _love_ us,” she needles, and yeah, I really do.

 

“Baz always _did_ call me thick,” I tease.  I dodge a blow that was meant for my shoulder and thank Merlin the fog of liquor has made her hand-eye coordination rubbish or else I’d be rubbing away the imprints of her rings.  “Speaking of, I’m really not, despite what he might tell you.  I know you know.  Where’d he go?  Out with it.”

 

“Toilets,” she answers evenly, face set in the lie, but her eyes shoot towards the entrance and I know where he is. 

 

“ _Bastard_.”  And I might be impaired, but I’m up in an instant, launching myself out of my seat and onto unsteady legs.    

 

“Oi, Snow!  That’s my nephew you’re talking about,” she calls after me as I head for the doorway.  “He’s a son of a _Pitch_.  And I’ll have you know,” her voice rises into a shout, “he’s a Grimm one too!” 

 

 

FIONA

 

He’s good for Basil.  Good for me, even.  Rounds out our hard edges.  Doesn’t let us win all the time.  I suppose he’s always had that skill – has always known how to pick his battles.  And there was never really much of one when it came to Basil, now was there?

 

Bah, I’m getting soft in my older age.  Better harden up.  I lift my glass to my lips, take a sizable pull and nearly spray it back out and across the taps from where it came _.  Fuck a nine-toed troll_ – the bloody teetotaler’s trying to kill me!  The blandness is like a bite and my tongue virtually shrivels up and into my skull.  It’s not fucking whisky I’ve been knocking back – the dirty double-crossing prick of a snake’s somehow changed the amber contents of my lowball to clear, cold water.

 

And they say he’s not the Chosen One.  My fucking foot.

 

 

SIMON

 

He’s not on the sidewalk when I drive the door open, and a brief flicker of fear passes through me.  What _if_ the arsehole’s gotten himself captured again?  Fucking numpties – how do they do it?  For Merlin’s sake, they have sodding rocks for brains.  We’ve got wands.  It shouldn’t be so goddamned easy. 

 

I bring my magic to the surface, preparing to summon my blade (the Sword of Mages had returned along with my magic – Penny thinks it’s because the title of Mage died along with him and I’d remained his Heir up until the time of his passing), but, no – there’s a flash from a flame that’s playing against the wall of the alleyway and I’d recognize the outline of that palm, the glow from that conjured fire anywhere. 

 

“ _You_.”  I round the corner and step directly into a plume of grey smoke, my finger stabbing squarely into his heart. 

 

“Hi.”  The prat has a grin a kilometer wide, his teeth white and sharp. 

 

“You, you… you flammable shithead!”

 

“At your service.”  He’s got the bloody nerve to wink as he tips an imaginary boater at me. 

 

I tear the burning cigarette from his grasp. 

 

“I wasn’t quite finished.”

 

“You are now,” I say.

 

I break it in half.

 

“That was a perfectly good cigarette.” 

 

I stomp on it.

 

“And you’re being a perfectly good git, you complete and utter fuck-goblin.”

 

He doesn’t take the bait, just hitches an eyebrow in amusement as he casts **_Make a wish_** with a wave of his ivory wand.

 

“Oh, if you insist,” I mock, even though I know he really isn’t asking.  “I _wish_ you’d stop smoking, you… you arsehole!”

 

The sparks in his hand dissolve and he pushes off the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.  He steps in and I don’t back down (I won’t), advancing closer and closer until our foreheads are nearly touching, until he’s right against my open mouth. 

 

“I love it when you call me pet names,” he drawls, and it’s like fingers running down my spine.  “You always know just what to say to turn me on.” 

 

I can feel the curve of his lips as they quirk upwards and I’m reeling, dizzy off the sweet-smelling fumes tinged with the thick haze of alcohol, and all I want is to lick at his mouth until I’m sated.  His lips should be moving around _me_ , it should be _me_ he gets a buzz from and I know I taste better than the charcoal grit of tobacco and the sharp drag of nicotine.  I need to be the only thing he can’t deny – _need_ him to want me back in the same way I want him: like a rush, like a stimulant, like chemical desire.  I kiss him, desperate, trying to make him forget about the tosser in the bar, to let him know that others can try to buy me a drink, but that he’s the only one who can take me home.  And it must work, because –

 

“ _Crowley_ , Simon.  Let me square up with Fiona.  I’ll walk you home,” he offers when we part, but that’s not what I want right now – not just yet. 

 

“I’m not,” I enunciate, grinding my trainer back and forth into the ruined cigarette until it unravels, splitting open and into the concrete.  “I’m _not_ going home.”  I jut out my jaw in a challenge.

 

“You _said_ ,” he reminds me gently, tracing his hand along the outside of my face, “that you wanted to wake up early for practice, and you told me you’d still mean it even if you were off your gourd.”

 

“Fuck practice,” I growl, gathering the fabric of his shirt in my fists.  “I mean you more.”  

 

His eyes flash a warning and he strikes like lightning, pulling me by the wrists and deeper into the shadows of the alleyway.  He trips over a garbage can, rattling the metal of the lid with an echoing clang, and he’s always so fucking perfectly precise that I laugh, doubling into him at the sight of his long graceful legs twisted up in the trash.  He hisses, kissing it away as he sucks the sound from my throat and I’m not laughing anymore, not when he presses me against the bricks, his hand reaching out to shield the back of my head.  And his other hand is everywhere: stroking at my bicep, notching into my side, trailing to squeeze at the fullness of my arse as I sigh into his mouth. 

 

And I’d just wanted a sip, but I’ve drained my drink and I’m ordering another as my fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him down and into me.  We’re licking the last traces of whisky off each other’s tongues and if I weren’t already drunk, I’d be all over again at the taste of him, the feel of him long and hard against me.  I shift against him, not really knowing or caring where this is going, just needing more of it, until -

 

“Simon,” he breathes, voice pouring smooth and liquid in my ear like alcohol flowing from a shaker and into a glass, “let me suck you.  Can I?”

 

I open my eyes and a cobwebbed bulb above us flickers a reminder, the light flashing across his face in slices.  The street at the end of the alleyway’s deserted, but we’re illuminated, clear as daylight.  And I’d trust Baz with anything, but he’s well and truly gone, he’s lost the plot entirely if he thinks this is a good idea, and I fight the urge to gape at him. 

 

“Are you out of your _mind_?”

 

“Completely.”  His lips stretch into a wry smile.  “Aren’t you?”

 

It’s all I can do not to give in, it’s all I want, and I rock my hips up, thrusting them against him, but fuck, we _shouldn’t_ , we _can’t_ , not _here_.  Surely his brain’s been addled by liquor and bad ideas and it’s up to me to talk some sense into him, no matter how weak my argument is.   “But… our drinks – they’re inside.  And besides –”

 

“- I’d rather drink you instead.”  The look he’s giving me is indecently suggestive.  It’s one I’ve seen before and it always precedes something that makes my toes curl, and I already know I’m fucked.  I want it, want him around me and I’m heated with just the thought of his lips wrapped tight around my cock, but _no_.  I need air, I need logic.  I yank my collar away from my neck.

 

“Was there something funny in your cigarette?” I splutter, waving a hand at the strobing light.  “We’ll be seen.”

 

He rolls his eyes.  “I swear to Crowley you forget you’re a mage sometimes.”  He surveys the alley, then slides his wand from out of his pocket.  “ ** _Lights out_** ,” he casts, clear and controlled, and the bulb above us shorts and fizzles. 

 

The alley falls into velvet darkness. 

 

“Now,” he ventures, his palms braced on opposite sides of my head.  “Do you think you can keep quiet or should I spell for that too?”  He leans into me, dragging the front of his jeans against mine, and I’m done for – my body’s decided it for me.  For all the reasons it shouldn’t be, it sounds – it feels – like the best idea, like he’s got it all covered, and I tip my head against the wall as he sinks to his knees. 

 

“You know I never can shut up,” I concede, unfastening the button of my jeans.  I want him to know, want to tell him, want him to hear all of the things he does to me.  I tear at my zipper as he conjures, looking up at me through half-lidded eyes, and I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I yank down my pants just enough to give him access.  It isn’t that cold, not really, but I shiver.

 

I melt when the heat of his mouth envelops my cock, and I’m burning up as his tongue devours me.  It swipes up, hot and wet and teasing, running the length of my erection as it travels to swirl sinfully around the head.  He pulls back, dipping his tongue into my slit as he pumps at the base with his hand and fuck, if he’s not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen like this, his lips swollen and greedy around me.

 

He draws me further back his throat, his head bobbing as his other hand moves from its grip on my thigh to palm the weight of my bollocks.  A long finger extends out to press firmly in the space behind them and it’s intoxicating, the things his lips and fingers can do.  It moves through my bloodstream and into my brain until it’s thinking without me, operating on its own as I pant out, “I… Baz, will you – just.  Keep going.”

 

He doesn’t look up, just inches his finger further until it’s swallowed up by my arse.  He curls it inwards, matching its thrusts to the pace of the drag of his tongue around my cock, and I could die, right here, but it’s not enough.

 

“Could you… Baz, more,” I groan, and he doesn’t even say anything, doesn’t take his lips off me, just raises an eyebrow and twists another finger inside of me.  And I love each one of his fingers and the way they move, but it’s _still_ not enough.

 

“No,” I say, turning my head.  He stops and I’d kiss away the question on his face, if only I could reach him.  “No, please, I meant more than…  I want you instead.  Fuck me, just… I need you, Baz.  You.  Now.”  I slump against the wall, my breath caught in my chest.  He _has_ to say yes, has to say he will.

 

He still hasn’t risen, just blinks up at me slowly from around my cock.  “ _Here_?”

 

“Yes, bloody _here_ ,” I grumble, throwing up my hands.  “Where else, Buckingham Palace?

 

“But, before.”  He frowns, standing to examine me.  “You were –”

 

“- Don’t care anymore.  You’ve fucking converted me.”

 

His eyes search mine, then flit down the alley walls and to the empty street.  I can see him, but not much else.  There’s no possible way a passerby would glimpse anything more than a blackened pathway, and no one would be barmy enough to cut through darkness this late at night.  He must be satisfied with what he sees (or doesn’t), and he turns back to me, his wand raised.  And it’s not bloody necessary, it really isn’t, but I should have known this was coming and I brace myself, gritting my teeth.    

 

It’s not a very effective spell.  It doesn’t work for long and it has glaring limitations (if you’re extremely and utterly pissed, it may not do much at all).  I don’t understand the science behind it, but I do know that not even magic can alter blood alcohol content.  This just masks it temporarily, providing a few brief moments of clarity before the fog settles back in.  It’s vaguely unpleasant, too – when you’re comfortably drunk, the last thing you want is to have it ripped away from you, but if this is what it takes, then so be it.

 

“Sorry, love.”  He winces, and I know he doesn’t want to do it either, but this isn’t the first time and likely won’t be the last.  It’s odd – you’d think Baz would be the lightweight of the two of us, what with him having less blood pumping through his system and all, but he could likely execute a violin concerto flawlessly right now.  He claims he’d gotten a head start on developing a tolerance in the catacombs fifth year, but I’m also not sure how alcohol affects borrowed blood, although I have seen him good and trousered (just not tonight).  Regardless, I suppose I’ve brought it all on myself, but as long as it brings him onto me, then all’s forgiven. 

 

“ ** _Sober up_** ,” he casts, and it feels like a vacuum’s sucking up the ethanol from my brain and my eyes open wide, no longer weighed down by whisky.  It’s all suddenly clear clear clear – _too_ clear, and I shake my head. 

 

Baz likely thinks this will make me come to my senses, but he’s even more fucking undeniable now that I’m seeing him straight, and the churning desire in my stomach has only been made more sharp.  I only have a minute, maybe two, before it all comes crashing down around me again and I blurt, “I’m serious, Baz.  Fuck me.  Here, now.  I mean it.  I want you too much, want –”

 

He cuts me off with his mouth and we’re kissing like it’s a substitute for breathing, like we’re each other’s only source of air and it’s a matter of keeping alive.  He’s pinned me to the wall, holding me up until the drinks have caught back up with me and Merlin, fuck, there’s a reason it took so long to down them in the first place.  I’m spinning, swimming in the rapid reversal, but the current lets up and evens out as quickly as it’d surged in, washing me to steadier shores.

 

“You okay?” He questions, supporting me by my shoulders.  His eyes are the colors of the waters I’ve been wading in: deep greys and blues and greens.  They’d keep me afloat even if I were drowning.

 

“Define okay,” I pant out, my chest heaving like I’ve been underwater for too long.

 

“It can’t seriously be that bad.”

 

“Then _you_ try it sometime.”

 

“Unlike you, I know my limits,” he retorts smugly, but alright, that’s true enough.  I just haven’t had as much practice.  “You can’t blame me for doing it.”  I can’t.  “It’s not every day we shag in an alley.”  No, it isn’t – but we’d better be.

 

“Get on with it then.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _Really_ sure?”

 

“ _Yes_.”      

 

“ _Positively_ sure?”

 

“Yes a million times yes, unless you’re the one who’s not!” I shout, testing the limits of his silencing spell.

 

He unzips.

 

“Turn around, then,” he commands.  And I don’t want to look away, not when I see his cock in his palm, hard and tall and ready for me, but I obey.  “Hands on the wall, darling.”

 

And the lights are out, but I’m awash in his magic.

 

 

 

BAZ

 

I don’t have any inhibitions, not anymore.  I’d bend him over a barstool if he wanted me to.

 

I’d only wanted to drink him in, but Simon’s pumping through my blood like the warm buzz of whisky and I’m wasted on him and the heady rush of his magic, drunk off the taste of him on my tongue.  I’m too far gone and I can’t wait, can’t stop, can’t do anything else but slide into him.

 

But it’s like sinking into a dream of the best kind: soft and painless where colors and sounds are made heavy and lush by the haze of alcohol, and I don’t want to wake up.

 

 

SIMON

 

His fingers are latched onto my hips, his nails digging into my skin with each thrust.  I’m more and more inebriated with every push, every pull, my arms trembling as he drives me toward the wall.  And there’s no part of me that’s sober – I’m too drunk off of this, off of his magic, off of the throb of his cock in my arse as it drags inside me, and I’m lost.  I’m hooked on it, on _him_ , and it floods through me, filling my head until it’s weighted, drugged with love and lust and everything in between, and I drop it between my arms.  He can have it, he can take it all.  I let him and I let him and I let him, and he gives it to me right back. 

 

I don’t know if it’s Baz or his magic, but something’s tipping, spilling out and spreading through me like a downed shot.  It courses through my veins, fast and hot, and it’s everything – everything I knew I needed.  It pools in my stomach, burning away at my insides until I’m falling apart, spurting in white streaks against the rust-colored bricks.

 

I don’t even think on it this time.  I’m too intoxicated by him.  And Baz is always saucy when he drinks.

 

 

FIONA

 

Struts in like a peacock after all this time away, swanning about the place as if he’d never left it.  Acts as if he’s just set his drink down when it’s sitting abandoned, warm and waterlogged.  Doesn’t even offer an apology to his dear Auntie for his rude departure either. 

 

The bollocks on that boy must be made of brass.

 

“Enjoyed your cigarette I see.”

 

His hair’s mussed like a black lion’s mane, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and I don’t know how Simon’s accomplished it since there’s little blood in him to spare, but there’s an angry red mark to the side of his neck.  His lips are stained, darkened as if they’ve been besotted with wine and his shirt’s rumpled, tucked into belted trousers that have missed a loop.  He looks like he’s grappled with a chimera and lost and that he doesn’t have the sense to do much more than grin about it.  Aleister almighty. 

 

“Where’s the Snow to your Bazzy?” I ask.  “Left you to do the walk of shame alone?”

 

“Waiting in the entryway.”  He perches onto the barstool next to me and attempts to smooth his hair behind his ears.  It doesn’t help – almost makes it looks worse.  It’s still unruly, black strands crossing in every which direction.  It’s like a hand’s raked twenty different patterns across it.  Simon probably had.  “If you think I should be ashamed, he’s worse off.”

 

“How very noble of you.  Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”  Or is it, technically speaking?  Whatever.  I take a swig of water and his eyebrow nearly reaches up to touch against his tousled hairline.  Twat.  As if he’s never seen me drink anything other than hard liquor.  I stick out my tongue in a nonverbal fuck you and continue, “If _you’re_ flushed, he must be scarlet.”

 

His lips quirk to the side.  “Something like that.”  He gazes off into the distance, studying the bloke at the bar from earlier.  Wannabe Romeo must feel the amplified weight of our dual stares and he turns, taking in Basil’s debauched state for a moment until he jerks his eyes away, rattled, his head in his hand, masking his face.  Ah.  _How intriguing_.  This must be the reason why Basil hasn’t bothered with smartening himself up.  He’s a walking announcement – a neon sign. 

 

“Fiona,” he starts, trailing his finger in the condensation on my glass, “is it normal to get so… jealous?”

 

It’s like he’d read my mind, but I _know_ that’s not a vampire thing (Simon Snow is easily fooled.)  (I’m not.) 

 

“We’re _Pitches_ , boyo,” I tell him.  “Where do you think all that fire comes from?”  I tap his chest.  “Thing is, you’ve got to manage it – tend to it.  Don’t fan the flames, but don’t let it burn out entirely.  A little healthy jealousy keeps it going.  You’ve got to poke the coals every once in a while.”

 

He snorts, small and sardonic.  “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

 

“Clearly.  Interesting method,” I smirk.  “Just don’t burn yourselves up.  Don’t tell him I said this, but I like the pair of you too much.”

 

He smiles – a genuine one, like the doubt’s been let out of it.

 

“Never mind the tab.”  I ruffle his hair to a final state of oblivion as he protests, ducking my reach.  "Go home – it’s on me.  You’ve been my entertainment for the evening.  And leave quickly while you’re at it – I can’t have my reputation sullied.  People will think you’ve been up to hanky panky in the toilets.”

 

“The toilets?”  He pulls a face as if he’s affronted.  “But that’s –”

 

“- Nasty and base?  Or have I confused the gents with a manky alleyway?”

 

“It was fairly clean,” he sniffs, tilting his chin in the air as he narrows his eyes in on me from above his crooked nose. 

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I insult the dumpster?  Please give it my apologies.”  He scowls, his lip curling in irritation as he turns his head away, but I continue taking the mickey.  “A romp outside a bar is nothing to be embarrassed about.  When I was your age –”

 

“Alright, alright.”  He stands at last.  “Leaving!” 

 

“Watch out for numpties,” I snort out from over the top of my glass.  He doesn’t respond, just straightens his shoulders as if he hadn’t heard me and strides over to the exit. 

 

I watch him go, watch Simon smiling up at him.  The boy’s like the sun. 

 

I know what Basil sees in him. 

 

We always want what we can’t have. 

 

I swing around in my seat, revisiting my drink. 

 

Oh Natasha, this nephew of mine is Pitch through and through.  Trouble, he is.  Nothing but.  And maybe it isn’t too late to put a stop to it.  I don’t think the fairies would take him now (he hasn’t been an innocent babe for years – he’s closer to an oversexed demon), but we _could_ still try dropping him to the bottom of the Thames.  Problem is, Simon would be right there to save him, and he’s trouble right back. 

 

At least they match.

 

But I swear to Crowley, if I catch the two of them defiling my sofa again, I might just end them both myself.

 

You’d understand, sister. 

 

You always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the sex scene was inspired by the song "Firefly" by Saves the Day. Shout out to my emo albums from 15 years ago.


	4. 4

BAZ

 

We’re coming up on the end of term and I’ve been chained to the library all sodding day, books and papers stacked around me like the kindling that’s sustaining the pyre of my studious blaze.  I’ve made some progress on composing my paper for Economic Change in Global History, but my brain’s overworked, whirring and stopping, then starting slowly again.  It doesn’t help that I’ve dug through my piles twice now, but can’t seem to locate my copy of _Globalizing Capital: A History of the International Monetary System_.  I don’t think I’ve lost it, but I alphabetize all of my reference materials and it’s not in its proper place beside _Global Capitalism: Its Fall and Rise in the Twentieth Century_.  I tap my pen against the table and stretch, letting out a frustrated groan. 

 

The chair beside me slides out and I think about rebuffing the new arrival with a demand that they find another table (I’m _clearly_ not in the mood for company), but it requires too much effort and I’m running low.  That is, until a Starbucks cup edges its way closer to my side of the desk and I grow dangerously closer to throttling whoever it is, the mannerless twit.  How rude, really, to crowd in on someone, and if that wasn’t enough, to taunt them with caffeine when you probably need it more than they do in the first place and –

 

My internal rant is interrupted when a pair of warm lips press their way onto the side of my neck.  I startle, knocking my spiral-bound notebooks to the floor with a sweeping wave of my forearm and I almost follow too, but Simon’s there to catch me, holding the back of my chair steady. 

 

“Crowley, Snow!” I shout as loud as a whisper allows.  I’m not trying to make enemies with the librarian.  I need this place too much.

 

“How else was I ever going to get your attention?”  He bends at his knees, gathering my notes into his arms.  “The Queen could be parading past and you’d still be sitting there, nose in your books.”  He hands them to me with a lopsided grin and I really want to kiss it off his face, but I’d just be adding further torture to my self-imposed sentence – starting something I know I can’t finish.  I purposefully begin rearranging my notebooks by their color-coded subjects instead.  “You work too hard, Bazzy babe,” he says as he plunks into his chair.  He nudges the drink closer to my open hand.  “Thought you could do with some encouragement.” 

 

“Don’t call me that,” I scowl, reaching for the cup.  He knows I hate it (I don’t – I really love it), but he does it anyway even though I wish he wouldn’t (I hope he never stops – I’ll take any term of endearment from him I can get, even if it is a stupid one.)  I take a grateful sip and the taste of pumpkin mocha settles on my tongue. 

 

Merlin, I must really be out of sorts today – the scent’s so uniquely robust, so revitalizing that I should have recognized it immediately.  Same goes for Simon – he’s the loveliest blend of my shampoo (cedar and bergamot, naturally), his blood (as irresistible as bacon and cinnamon rolls) and his magic (like the sweetness of browned autumn leaves decomposing on the ground – it smells much better than it sounds).  I shake my head, trying to think.  He always makes it more difficult.  “Aren’t you supposed to be with your study group?” I ask.  Have I got my days mixed up?  Have I somehow been here overnight? 

 

“Cancelled this week.  Something about anxiety over there not enough being enough time to study in a day, which is what the group is for, but whatever, I don’t make the rules.  Apparently we’ll pick back up next week after our essays are turned in.”  He hauls his backpack onto the table with a thud.  A wave ripples through my papers and one flies into the air, but he catches it before I can make a face at him.  “Was hoping to study with you instead.  We can make our own group,” he suggests, pulling in his chair.  He turns to face me with a sheepish smile.  “You were gone all day.  I got a little lonely without you,” he confesses.  “Figured you might be lonely too.”

 

 _He’s_ the reason why I study here so much, but I’m not likely to tell him that.  I never get anything done with him in the same room.  I still don’t know how I ever pulled it off at Watford (he was still so bloody distracting, even when I was pretending to despise him), but it’s next to impossible now.  There’s his tongue poking out over his lips as he’s writing and his fingers twisting in his curls when he’s thinking and the little puffs of his _breathing_ and it’s all too much – it makes me want to undress him on top of his books, piece by piece.   

 

“I haven’t been getting much done.  Too busy thinking about you,” I say.  It’s true.  He’s a much more interesting subject than Economics. 

 

“Oh?”  He retrieves the 8th Edition of _Fundamentals of Abnormal Psychology_ from his bag and flips it open.  It’s well-worn, dog-eared and highlighted in yellows and pinks, greens and blues.  I never write in my books – I prefer them uncluttered, pristine and untouched.  “What were you thinking about?” he asks, biting into his lower lip. 

 

“Mostly about…,” I start, but I catch myself.  This is exactly why studying together isn’t something we do.  I draw in a steady inhale and manage to course correct.  “Thinking about how I wish you were here… so I could ask you to go and find a book for me.”

 

“You’re such a bloody tease,” he huffs quietly, scratching at his neck with his pencil.  The eraser dips beneath his collar and I wish I could follow it just one centimeter lower.  There’s a mole there, right below the surface.  It’s on the same longitude as one beneath his ear.  I like to connect the two, licking a line between them.  His neck flushes red as if he’s thinking about it too.

 

“Like _you’re_ one to talk,” I reply.  I rifle through my bag again, dumping out the contents in front of me.  Still not there.  I sigh heavily, shoving my sheet music back inside before I misplace it as well.  Although I can’t help but think that maybe it would be for the best if it got lost.  I’ve been working on an original composition for Simon’s birthday, inking notes and melodies to life when the inspiration strikes (usually when I’m watching him sleep – I’m always up later than he is and old habits die hard).  The piece is shaping up to be hopelessly soppy (Daphne certainly wouldn’t be able to call _it_ “needlessly morose”).  I might as well title it _A Vampire in Love._ It’s quite pitiful, really. 

 

I don’t know if I’ll have the bollocks to actually go through with playing it for him when the time comes though.  Simon’s always been the brave one, charging and blundering with his sword drawn.  I’m more of a “skulking in the catacombs while I agonize and overanalyze" type.  Which is why I don’t know if I can physically bear to witness his reaction.  If he hates it, it would ruin me forever.  (It’s almost unfair, the power he has over me, and he doesn’t even know it.)  (He can’t, ever.)  (I have to maintain what little dignity I can). 

 

Maybe I’ll just have to decapitate myself before I play.  I could bury my head in the ground while my body performs – it would likely freak him out less than having to listen to _Ode to Snow_.  (Though I suppose I _would_ need a chin to rest my violin on.) 

 

He stops writing as I continue rooting through my bag.  “What are you looking for again?” he questions, squinting over at the jumble on my desk. 

 

“A book,” I say simply.  “I told you.” 

 

“Yeah, I got that.”  He picks up his pencil with a roll of his eyes.  He really has no idea how much I love him either; of the things I think.  It always sends a little thrill through me.  “Which one?”

 

“ _Globalizing Capital: A History of the International Monetary System_.  Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”  I ask sarcastically.  I know he hasn’t.

 

“Coffee table.  Batty was sleeping on it this morning.”

 

Bugger, that’s right.  I’d been up reading late last night with Bunce (the only acceptable study partner – equal parts efficient, focused and nonirritating) while Simon slept.  I’d seen Batty napping before I’d left today, but she must have been camouflaging it – she’s as black as the cover.  Not like it matters.  I wouldn’t have disturbed her for it anyway. 

 

“Well, I can’t imagine it makes for a good pillow,” I allow, “but at least it’s not lost.  Any chance you want to search for it in the stacks for your poor, overloaded boyfriend?”  I’m on the verge of something – I can feel it in the air.  I don’t want to let it get away from me.

 

“Not bloody likely.  Last time I was here you had me looking for a section that didn’t exist.  Wandered around for an hour until I finally embarrassed myself with the librarian.”  He cringes at the memory, squeezing his eyelids shut.  “Should have known Psychosexual Economics wasn’t a real thing.”  He shakes his head and flicks a page over.  “I’m not falling for your fat load of tripe again.” 

 

“I _had_ to do it,” I scoff.  “You gave me no choice.  You were being abysmally annoying.  I couldn’t concentrate.”  It’s true – he’d been clicking his pen like he was going for a new world record.  When I’d forcibly removed it from him, he’d started tapping his feet.  I couldn’t forcibly remove those, so I’d merely suggested he use them for an impossible task instead.

 

“Well, _I’m_ trying to concentrate now,” he snaps.  “ _You_ can go locate it.”  He unwraps his straw, spearing it through the top of his lid in emphasis.  “Probably time for you to get up anyway, you lazy sod.  Your arse is likely melding into the seat by now.”

 

“Love you too, dear,” I retort in a voice so sickeningly sweet, it’s almost acidic.  I push up and out of my chair and Crowley, if he isn’t right.  My legs have gone numb, but I manage to stalk into the shelves with my head held high. 

 

 

SIMON

 

I couldn’t miss watching Baz limp to the stacks with his nose in the air and I’ve just buried my head in my book again when I hear the sound of a throat being cleared.

 

“Excuse me.”  A woman is standing there, her arms overburdened, clutching a pile of books to her chest.  She’s pretty, with a nice smile and long raven-black hair.  It’s the same shade as Baz’s and I can’t help but think it’d look better cut shorter.  “Sorry to bother you,” she says, shifting the weight from one foot to the other, “but do you have a charger?  My mobile’s low and I can’t study without music.  It’s too quiet in here.”

 

I can relate.  Baz insists upon an atmosphere of deafening silence, but I need a little background noise in order to focus.  It probably comes from having blown up one too many things in my lessons at Watford – I’m used to a functional level of chaos. 

 

“No worries,” I say.  “I think I might.  Hang on.”  I rummage in the outside compartment of my backpack and fish it out, handing it to her.  Her fingers are cool as they wrap around mine.  “Use it as long as you need – no rush.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”  I wave her off.  “I’m good.”

 

“I don’t want to walk off with it in case I forget to give it back.  Do you mind if I sit here while it charges?” she asks.

 

“Guess not,” I reply.  I zip up my bag, setting it back on the floor so she has room to spread out her things.  As long as she doesn’t want to talk, I really don’t care where she sits.  I’m not as serious as Baz, but I’m on a study schedule too and I need to finish reviewing this chapter by the end of tonight.

 

“I haven’t seen you much around campus before,” she remarks.  Ugh.  Oh no.

 

“I’m not here that often.” I shrug, turning back to the last line of notes I’d taken.  “Some people practically live here.” I motion over to Baz’s nest.  I’d try and tidy it for him, but I’d likely get a lecture about ‘altering his study ecosystem’.  I don’t question his methods although they’re a touch beyond eccentric.  I can’t when Penny’s are equally strange, and they’re the two most brilliant people I know. 

 

“Right?  Like get a hobby,” she laughs, twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger.  I frown and she attempts to even it out, smiling with more teeth showing than should be humanly possible.  “So what kind of music do _you_ like?”

 

Baz isn’t going to like this. 

 

Not at all.

 

 

BAZ

 

You’ve got to be kidding me.  I’m gone for no more than five minutes and it’s happening _again_? And this time, it’s someone I know leaning across the table, smiling long and slow at him.  It makes it even more unbearable and my fangs drop, from vexation or animosity or resentment I don’t even know – likely some troubling combination of all three.  I think about retreating back into the aisles, losing myself in the winding stacks, but she’s seen me and it’d be discourteous (at best, blatantly rude at worst) of me to turn my back now.  I blame my upbringing – too much time spent in and around polite society.

 

“Oh,” she says as I draw closer, like I’m disturbing her instead of the other way around.  “Hi, Baz.  This is Simon.”

 

“We’ve met, thank you.”  I’ve had to press my lips together on account of the sharpened knives in my mouth and it comes out muffled.  Simon shifts in his seat to look up at me.  “You two seem to be well-acquainted.”

 

“Yeah, I..,” she begins saying, but -

 

“- I’m Baz’s boyfriend,” Simon blurts out cheerily and I can’t believe it, but he really has no idea, none at all about what’s happening here.  I’d wonder if a person could truly be so oblivious, but I already know the answer.    

 

“Oh.  _Oh_.  I’m sorry.”  She looks between us, then disconnects her phone from the plug that’s winding out from the wall.  “Think I’m all charged up now,” she claims, but she doesn’t even bother looking down at her screen to check.  “Nice meeting you, Simon.  Thanks again.  See you in class, Baz.”

 

“Cheers.”  It comes out cool and breezy, but I’d rather have said something with a little more fire, social pleasantries be damned.  ‘Fuck off’ would have rolled off the tongue quite nicely.  I drop back into my chair and try to focus on looking unconcerned, on keeping my face placid and calm, but it’s hard work to keep my nostrils from flaring.  I know I shouldn’t be so harsh.  If I’d spotted him here, stupidly gorgeous and all alone, I might have dreamed up a way to talk to him too.

 

“Find what you needed?”  Simon smirks, clamping his teeth onto his straw. 

 

 _I did_ , I almost say.  _You._

The words are forming on my lips when I notice his cup.  It’s been rotated since I’d seen it last; the label’s now facing in my direction.  There’s the same looping script as before, but this time, it curves into a series of numbers.  And there’s a name on it that isn’t his.

 

Despair’s clutching at my insides, yanking them away and replacing them with visions of all the cruel and painful ways I might lose him.  And it’s absurd, really, I must be completely cracked, because it’s almost hysterical how I briefly consider getting a part-time job at a coffee shop so that _I_ can be the one to write love notes all over his orders.  I’ve got a list in my head I didn’t even know I’d had until now: _stunning idiot, gorgeous numpty, attractive mouth breather_.  The desperate imagining is all so ridiculous, so impractical, so hopeless, that I nearly bark out a bitter laugh, but there’s a lump worrying its way into my throat instead.

 

I don’t know what else I can do other than nothing, other than being tired of this. 

 

And I’m exhausted.   

 

 

SIMON

 

Baz doesn’t say anything, just slumps over the pages of his notes, his shoulders drawn in on himself.  A vertical line’s embedded itself in the space between his eyebrows and I want to reach over and iron it out, but he’s examining his book so intently, he’d likely iron _me_ out for disturbing his line of vision.  He turns to a new page with trembling fingers, his grey eyes drooping out from underneath his lids, heavy and unblinking.

 

He looks absolutely cream crackered.  I wish he wouldn’t do this to himself.  He shouldn’t push himself so much.  I should say so, could say so, but he’s headstrong and unshakable; he wouldn’t listen to me anyway.   

 

But I can still try.  There’s always other ways of getting to him – softer ways.  “What’s wrong?”  I place my hand on the curve of his back, angling my head in close to whisper it in his ear.  I never would have thought to try this back at Watford, back when we were screaming our throats raw at each other.  He probably would have head-butted me.  A lot’s changed since then, since I discovered that he best responds not to shouting, or to bluntness or to stubborn demands.  It’s gentleness.  Same as me.  (We match.) 

 

“Nothing,” he denies, but he leans into my touch like it’s something. 

 

It looks like his face crumples in on itself a bit, but I’m sure I’m wrong, because it’s back to looking impassive and detached in the next, and he’s straightening up in his seat.  “I don’t think I can concentrate much longer,” he announces, pinching the too-high bridge of his nose as he sets his chin in his hand.  Maybe it’s just a headache.  Can vampires even _get_ headaches?  I’d offer to shrink it for him, but even after all these months, it’s hard to trust my magic (something I’m still discussing with my psychologist) and I really don’t want to mess with Baz’s face.  It’s too perfect to risk a run-in with my wand.  I rub my hand along his spine instead. 

 

“Are you sure?” I question.  “After you just found the book you’d been going on about?”

 

“I think,” he starts in a low voice, lifting his head to fix his burning eyes on mine, “I think I’d rather study you instead.”  He shuts his book, the one he’d just pulled from off the racks, closed with a definitive thud. 

 

I don’t protest further, not when I see the look on his face. 

 

If Baz needs stress relief, I’ll give it to him.  Merlin knows I could use some too.

 

 

 

BAZ

 

Simon Snow saved the world, gave up everything he had so it could keep on turning.  It nearly emptied him fully, nearly tore him apart.  What more could the world possibly want from him? 

 

Let him have me – the one thing he chose for himself when he didn’t think he could ever have anything to choose from at all. 

 

Until this, I’d never gotten the things I’d wished for (for my mother, to be alive, not to be gay).  (I’ve long since taken that last one back – you couldn’t rip my queerness out of my cold, undead hands.) 

 

Let me have him – I chose him right back, even when I didn’t think he’d be a choice I could ever get to make. 

 

Let us have each other without interruption. 

 

Just this one thing, just this once.

 

Is that selfish of me?  Maybe.  Sometimes I just want him for myself.  After all we’ve been through together, is that so wrong?    

 

But if the world won’t let me have him, I know of a way.  There’s one thing we can do alone, just him and me.  And it’s the only thing strong enough to take away the sting.

 

 

 

SIMON

 

I’d thought we were on a permanent, lifelong truce, but finally, it’s come to this.  The end.

 

Baz is trying to kill me. 

 

How could I ever think he’d been tired before?  He’s anything but.  He’s fucking relentless.

 

His lips had pressed into the back of my neck as soon as our legs had carried us to my flat, my fingers scrambling to fit my key into the lock.  I’d pushed the door open and he’d flipped me with an easy turn of his wrist, shutting me against it, his fingers twisting in my shirt as he’d kissed me stupid, kissed me until my eyes crossed from behind closed lids.  My keys had fallen to the floor, forgotten.  But this – _him_ – I could never forget.

 

He’d backed me down the hallway, stalking me until he’d flattened me to the mattress.  He’d pinned me down with his knees and his palms, holding himself up above me on all fours, and he’s had his way with me since.  It’s been all brushes of lips and swipes of tongue and the smallest, careful grazes of teeth whispering against bare skin as he’s worked his way from the dip of my throat to the outsides of my thighs.  But that’s been _it._   And it’s been torture.  There’s been no fingers, or hands, or anything else at all, not the things I really want, just him hovering above me like the predator he is as he licks and kisses and bites away at me.  I’m so caught up in him, on his pins and his needles that he could prick me with his fangs and I'd beg him to drain me dry just to have something _more_ , something with _pressure._     

 

He hasn’t even touched me yet, not properly at least, but his magic creeps over me, dark and heated, like flames dancing along my skin.  He’s always so cold, but his magic’s so _hot_ and I need it so badly, need to feel the burn of him on me.  My magic’s calling him to me and my hips are like magnets, drawing up and into him, but they buckle up and into nothing again and again and again.  I’m surging up just to spiral out and it’s like falling fast, like plummeting into a hazed and heavy blackness.  He’s _right there_ , he’s so close, but he’s not here the way he should be, isn’t wrapped up in me and in my magic.  It’s maddening and I’m trembling and feverish with it, my muscles and my heart and my brain set on fire.  He’s the only remedy, the only thing that can soothe me, but he won’t.

 

My magic can’t take the weight of his absence much longer.  Neither can I.

 

When we’d first met, he’d been cool and cruel as the magic of the Crucible had gnawed away at my insides.  All I’d wanted, all I’d _needed_ was to touch him and he’d held out, aloof and unaffected.  How can he be like that now, after everything?  How can he ignore magic – ignore _me_?  How the fuck does he do it?  How doesn’t he _feel_ it?  (Is this another vampire thing?)  Magic’s meant to be obeyed.  It demands reaction.  I’m holding out more than just my hand this time and he still won’t fucking _take it_.

 

He’s pulled back around my feet and his tongue’s running the length of my arch, flitting into the spaces between my toes, and I’m dying, I can’t live like this – this is how it all ends, I’m sure of it.  A strangled noise works its way out of me and it’s just like the spell, **Not with a bang, but a whimper**.(Hideous dark magic made for weakening your enemy in battle.  Thank Merlin I’d never had to use it on anyone, but Baz would have had a much better chance of making it work on me – he’s a reader of poetry and a master of words and I’m still rubbish with them.)  He captures my big toe in his mouth and sucks, his tongue swirling in circles around it, and I can’t take it anymore, not any longer, I _can’t_. 

 

“What are you _doing_?”  I try to keep the desperation out of my voice, but it’s there.  I’m not cool like Baz, I’ve always run hot, and I can’t help but show it. 

 

He releases my toe with an audible _pop_ and I groan.  “I told you earlier,” he says, as if this should all be obvious.  “Studying.”  He works his fingers into my heel, a satisfied smirk unfurling on his face as he watches my toes curl at the contact.  “Think I’m on the verge of a breakthrough.”

 

“I’m going to break _you_ ,” I growl at him.   

 

“Why?” he asks innocently, tilting his head as if he can’t possibly figure it out.

 

 _I wonder_.  My pitiful cock’s standing straight up in the air, unwanted and overlooked.  He’d breezed right past it on his downward descent as if it didn’t exist, as if it wasn’t looming right in front of his face.  He won’t let me touch it and refuses to do so himself.  And he thinks _I’m_ the thick one? 

 

“Touch me,” I plead, changing tactics.  Maybe if I make him feel sorry enough for me, he’ll give in.  “Enough.”

 

“I _am_ touching you,” he points out, drumming deliberate fingers into my instep, and my hips lift up and off of the bed again.  He’s playing dumb, so fucking dumb, and I’d kick some sense into him if I didn’t love him, didn’t love _this_ so fucking much.  I don’t even bother pretending like I don’t.  He’s right under my thumb when I’m right under his and I wouldn’t want it any other way and he knows it, the smug arsehole, he _knows_ it and it’s just like him to use it against me. 

 

“Everywhere but where I want.  Where you know I want it.”  I’m well aware I’m whining, but I don’t even care.  He’s got me so fucking dizzy, worked up to the edge, and I need him to break my fall on the way down, need to slam into him instead of the hard ground. 

 

“I have to do my research,” he insists.  “And you _know_ I’m a very thorough student.”  He runs his flame-roughened hands along my calves and I think this has to be it, the way he’s inching up past my knees, but he reaches my thighs and he stops, smiling wickedly.  “There’s more to you than your front, love.  And I’ve got a whole other side of you to explore first.” 

 

I _knew_ it.  I’d been right about him ever since we were first years.  I _always_ knew he was evil.  He can’t keep on doing this, I can’t let him get away with it, even if the thought of his diligent mouth sweeping its way across my arse makes my cock twitch. 

 

I sit up on my elbows so I can glare at him.  “I can save you the trouble.  There’s nothing more to learn.  Just stick it the fuck in,” I snarl, and my magic flares, thundering in my ears as specks of blue flood into my vision.  My old magic would have burned the whole fucking building down.

 

He doesn’t even blink, doesn’t shrink away from its power, just brings a finger to his chin as if this is all something he could possibly be pondering.  “So eloquent, Snow, but I think I’ll take my time,” he decides, pushing forward onto his hands and knees.  He’s moving in, lowering himself to my mouth, and I collapse back into the covers.  (I’m weak, so weak, when it comes to him – when it comes to _this_.)  He pauses in place, just barely out of reach.  “Don’t look so worried, darling.  I _am_ going to fuck you.  But not yet.  I want you wild first.  I want you _begging_ ,” he demands, unyielding, and soon I won’t need him to fuck me at all, not if he keeps on talking to me like this.  I’m almost fucking _there_ , already, and he’s almost fucking _on_ me, and I’m beyond turned on – cranked all the way up like numbers on a dial, even if this deprivation game has me miserable.

 

All I can feel is his breath on my face.  He’s waiting.  Of course he is, the bastard.  He’s really going to use _my_ move against me?  He’s really going to make _me_ work for it? _I_ haven’t been denying _him_ of anything, and I’m here for the taking, lying underneath him with spread legs and a swollen cock.  _He_ should be the one to submit, but my body has other ideas, and I’m already rising up and onto my forearms.

 

“I alread _y_ _am_ ,” I protest, straining up for his lips.  I pour my magic into it, drawing him into me with my tongue, and I almost have him, can almost pull him down with me, but he jerks back onto his heels instead. 

 

“Not good enough,” he claims, but it must be.  His raging erection says otherwise.  At least I know _it_ wants me even if he’s pretending that he doesn’t, and that it’s angry with him about it too.  “I want you to say it.”

 

“Say what?  The magic words?” I snap at him.  My nerves are frayed, worn thin at the edges.  It feels like they’re blistering, like every last neuron is screaming at him to touch me.  “This _is_ magic.  How can you resist it?” I hiss out from around gritted teeth. 

 

“Have you forgotten I’m a vampire and that you smell good enough to eat?  Self-control is one of my better qualities.  I see self-preservation isn’t one of yours.”  He crosses his arms against his chest and I die a little more inside – his hands are even _further_ away from me now.  “All you have to do is tell me.  Tell me what you want.”

 

“I want _you_ , Baz.”

 

“Ah, I think we can do better.  Don’t you?” he maintains, but I must have at least said something right this time.  He unfolds his arms, planting his palms aside of my hips, but that’s it.  All I can feel is the air, crackling with our magics.

 

“I want _you_ to fuck _me_.”

 

“Closer.”  His lips graze against the scar on my inner thigh and I try to roll into it, but he’s already raised his head, looking at me expectantly with a raised eyebrow.

 

 _Fine_.  Fucking fine.  I want him to know, want to make him see the same shade of red I’m seeing.  I want him to give me what I want, and he will – he _will_ – after I tell him this.  I thrust out my chin and press on, “I want you to fuck me.  Until I can’t see straight.  Until the only thing in this world is you, is us.  I want you to fuck me until I can’t think, until I can only react.”  I swallow, licking at my lips.  My mouth’s gone dry all of a sudden.  “I want you to fuck me until I’m _dripping_.”

 

“Interesting.”  He kisses the head of my cock and it leaks onto my thigh.  “Go on.” 

 

“Dripping from my cock down your throat with your come still hot in my arse.”

 

He moans and his hands are nearly on me, but he reaches for himself instead, pumping his erection with his long fingers as I watch.  I could kill him.  Kiss him or kill him.  Maybe both.  “Why?” he prompts. 

 

“Because!” I growl out, slamming my fists into the bedsheets.

 

“Because _why_?  You’re so very close, Simon.”  He twists his wrist on the downstroke and I groan right back at him.  I can’t decide if I’m more envious of his hand or his cock.  “Use your _words_ ,” he orders, and it sets off something inside of me that boils hot in my blood until I’m shouting at him.    

 

“Because I love you and I love you fucking me and you alone and I’m gonna die if you don’t do it and it will all be your fucking fault!”

 

“I’m glad we’re agreed,” he concludes, brushing his hands together and smiling at me as if we’ve finished some bizarre business transaction.  “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”  He trails a teasing finger along the underside of my erection, and I swear to Merlin, I’m going to fucking combust.  “Unlike _you_.”

 

“Stop smirking and just do it.  _Do it_.”

 

My regular words don’t come out as spells, not anymore, but I think these must be doused in magic from the way he lunges toward me.  It’s as if he’s compelled, powerless to do anything else _but_ touch me, and his magic’s the same, sinking its way into my skin.  And it’s not just his tongue or his lips anymore, though we are licking at each other’s mouths as I pull at his hair in retaliation.  His fingers are in my arse and around my cock and I’ve had so much of nothing that it feels like _everything_. 

 

 _He’s_ everything.

 

He plunges inside, fast and frenzied, and I’ve been gone for so long that I nearly come instantly, but he’s fucking the life back into me and I hold on, eyes squeezed shut with my fingernails latched into his shoulders.  I want to let go, want to give myself up, but I can’t short out now, not after how long I’ve been waiting for it, not after how long he’s been keeping it from me.  I can’t let him win. 

 

No.  Not yet. 

 

My magic’s an endless current and I let it flow through me like a circuit, let it recharge me until static’s sparking across my skin, until I’m electric.  It flickers as he pounds against that spot inside of me and I’m pulsing around him, my arse taking him in and gripping him tight.  _This_ is what I’ve been pleading for: his fingers twisted in my hair, his cool lips pressed to my neck, his cock moving punishingly deep within me, and I’m lit up with it, by him, and the rush of his magic.  It blazes around me, building high and hot, and I’m a live wire, drawing strength from his power.  We could go all fucking night, could kiss and touch and fuck until we _incinerate_ , but fires are made to burn bright before they die out, and his magic’s raging, roaring through us.  It’s pouring out of him in thick and heated waves and I suck it into my lungs until I’m delirious, until I’m clawing at his arse, driving him further inside with my hands as I roll up my hips, and his magic bends, warping around us as my ears pop.

 

The flame sputters and fizzles and he’s flooding into me, saying my name like it means something, like it’s something he wants to hold on to.  Like it’s the only thing tethering him to this earth.  And I don’t know where I am anymore – other than in his arms, but I’m saying his back like it’s an answer, like it’s the only thing I can remember.  Like it’s the only thing that matters.

 

It is.  _He_ is.    

His mouth finds mine and he’s kissing me like it’s still a challenge, shoving his face into mine until we’re both panting, but I don’t give an inch.  My arm is a steel band around his waist and I shove back, pushing at him until he pulls off.  He presses his forehead to mine and for a moment, I think he isn’t going to give in, that he’s readying himself for another battle, but my magic’s on the attack and he surrenders, descending on my cock like I’d begged, and I come just like I’d asked: sticky and full, open and raw, with his lips dragging it out of me.

 

I feel burned out in the best way, scorched clean, and the smell of smoke and bergamot is hanging in the air, prickling at my nose.  My heart’s thudding beneath my chest, working furiously to pump the magic back into my veins.  It’s surely broadcasting my pulse loud enough for every vampire in London to hear, but there’s only one I care about, and he’s already crawling over me.  He grins as he pulls the duvet across us, and I’m grinning stupidly back as he takes my hand in his. 

 

He looks as shagged silly as I feel.  It’s a good look on him.  (Everything’s a good look on him, really.)

 

We burrow under the sheets, shutting out the world until it’s just the two of us breathing each other in, and he’s whispering into the space between us, using some of my words from earlier when he says, “I love you too, Simon.  I love shagging you and you alone, and you’ll never die, when you’re with me.  I’d always sacrifice myself for you.”

 

My breath’s gone out of my lungs and I don’t have the air to say anything back, so I squeeze his hand instead.  He brings my palm to his mouth and kisses it.  My magic flutters through my fingers and I close my eyes. 

 

“But I always thought you were going to kill me,” I whisper back.  I try to say it seriously, but I’m laughing, a little, at the end. 

 

“Not for a long time.”  He pushes my curls back from off my forehead, winding his fingers in my hair.  It’s different from before.  Careful.  Soft. 

 

“Hmmmm?” I open an eye.

 

“I haven’t wanted to do that for a long time.  Since fifth year, at least.”  He’s smiling like he’s trying not to.  “I’d realized I couldn’t possibly ever do you in, by then.  Not when I wanted you, when I wanted to do _this_ instead.” 

 

“I thought _this_ was going to kill me,” I sigh, closing my eyes again.  I smile, too, because I know he’s watching.  As far as I’m concerned, he _did_ try to kill me again tonight, but it’s not like I mind anymore.  I’d willingly die a thousand deaths by his hands.

 

“Me, too.”  His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, and I don’t know that we’re talking about the same thing, especially when he adds, “I try not to think about it.”  But he kisses the mole on my cheek and I know he’s smiling, still.

 

I let myself think about Baz as much as I want to now.  I don’t need lists anymore.  There aren’t as many things that I can’t have or can’t help.  But sometimes, lately, it almost seems like he has his own list of things that hurt. 

 

I don’t want to be on it. 

 

We’ve been bound to one another ever since the Crucible drew us together.  We’d wasted years fighting it, but _this_ – me and him, Simon and Baz – is inarguable. 

 

What’s there to avoid thinking about when it comes to _us_?    

 

And we’ve never had a hard time getting each other off, but it’s different, like this.  It feels like a plot, like point-proving.  Like he needed to get me to say what he wanted to hear.  But when I look over at him later, his brow’s smooth and his lips are turned up at the corners. 


	5. 5

BAZ

 

Last summer was the first one I’d gotten to be with Simon, watching from the comfort of the shadows as he’d been changed by the sunlight.  I didn’t have to dream about how he’d look when he returned to Watford after the warmer months had transformed him – I’d lived it with him.  I’d witnessed the blossoming of every freckle; had observed the gradual lightening of every curl, from tawny brown to golden bronze.  (I’d even been the one to steal the hair clippers away from him too.)  (Thank Merlin for that – it would have been a _disaster_.) 

 

And I get to do it all over again.

 

I’m so lucky.

 

(I nauseate myself, but I’m sick in love and I’ve decided that I really don’t fucking care.)

 

He pushes his hands through those ridiculous curls of his and blows me a kiss when he sees me watching.  I’m always watching.  Not because I’m creepy (which I am, admittedly so when it comes to him), but because I haven’t missed a match yet.  The smile fades from his face as an opponent doubles back into his zone and he breaks into a determined run, racing off in the opposite direction, flecks of grass dislodging from the pitch as the muscles in his legs work. 

 

I sit back, admiring the view. 

 

There’s a lot to take in. 

 

The sun doesn’t always shine in London, but it’s beating down today and nearly every other spectator is seated in the center rows of the open-air stands.  The angle isn’t as good from the shaded sides and it makes us look vaguely anti-social, but we don’t mind.  Bunce’s glasses are charmed to allow her to see long distances and I suppose vampirism is occasionally good for something.  I could see the sweat on Simon’s brow without straining.

 

“It’s a shame you can’t touch the ball,” she observes during a penalty kick (not on Simon – their right-back is woefully inept), swinging her legs out from under her.  It’s so warm out, she’s ditched her usual knee-high socks.  Both she and Simon were wardrobe-challenged post-Watford, but at least her style translated a bit more seamlessly.  A-line skirts are a grown-up progression from pleated ones, after all. 

 

“That’s the whole point of _foot_ ball, Bunce.  Hence the word foot,” I emphasize, taking my gaze off of Simon long enough to roll my eyes at her.   

 

“I know, _Basilton_.  _Obviously_.  I’m not that hopeless.  It’d just be more efficient, is all.”  She fiddles with her ring, looking quite bored.  I imagine she is.  It hasn’t stopped her from coming along to all of Simon’s matches though. 

 

“You really don’t care for football much, do you?” I ask, although I already know the answer, as well as the reason as to why she even bothers with coming at all.  We have more in common than I’d ever first thought possible. 

 

I’m his biggest fan – on and off the pitch (preferably on the _Pitch_ , as in on top of me).  All I want is to see him happy.  _Crowley_ , what an utter sap I’ve become.  If I weren’t so blissfully loved up, I might just stake myself on principle.  My sixth year self would be horrified (all that wanking had only succeeded in making me more hateful.)  (I’d hated what the sight of him had done to me, how I’d wanted him to fall into my arms instead of my fists.  Taking myself into my own fist had only made things worse.)  (It had been a vicious, lust-fueled cycle.)  My fifth year self would be horny (still am).  (Endlessly.)  (Some things never change, especially when you get to share a life – and a bed – with Simon Snow.)

 

She wrinkles her nose and her cat-eyed spectacles go askew.  “Well, I can’t say I had a very good introduction to it.  My best friend was always dragging me along to some dodgy prat’s matches.  It was clearly an excuse just to ogle him.” 

 

Funny.  Simon’s attendance at a match was always an excuse for me to show off.  I did my best work with him in the crowd.  “Well, look at us now,” I remark, smirking to myself.  “Tables turning and all that.”

 

She heaves an exaggerated sigh and smooths her skirt over her legs, tucking it under her knees.  “You’re so obsessed with each other it makes me sick,” she huffs, leaning back onto her forearms.  “I can’t wait until Micah’s here and the roles are reversed.  We’re going to come to your matches and ogle each other.”

 

As if I’d even notice.  Not with Simon as my teammate.  We’ve been talking about joining a pub league this summer and he has me just about convinced, even though he’s been a complete and total pest about it.  He’s been taking the piss, hounding me about being rusty and out of practice, boasting about how he’ll be sprinting circles around me, but he won’t be laughing for much longer.  Vampires don’t need to stay in shape – we’re (super)naturally stronger and faster, and it’s not like I’ve been stuffing myself on bikkies and buttered scones from sunup to sundown (unlike some people).  (Fortunately for him, he has the metabolism of a hummingbird.)  (And the brain of one too, at times.)  I’m looking forward to practice most of all, actually.  I’m going to die and it won’t be from the sun – it’ll be from choking on my own laughter as he struggles to cover me.  It’ll be like foreplay.

 

That’s another thing I never thought I’d get to experience.  Making plans with Simon.  Tomorrow, a fortnight, next month, fall term, this Christmas.  There are even the ones I’ve made in my own head, ones he doesn’t know about yet.  I’ve got a mounting desire to tear across the American wilderness in a convertible with him, the sun on his face and the wind blowing through his curls.  He’ll drink too many blue raspberry Slurpees and I’ll kiss the red back into his lips when he gets a brain freeze (he’s so predictable, the overzealous dolt).  We’ll take turns bickering at each other over the radio and squabbling over the map.  It’ll be lovely. 

 

Each new plan is sweeter than the last and I never take them for granted, even if it’s something as dull as stopping for a curry after exams next week.  There was a time I thought I’d never see him after Watford.  Well, unless I was on the other end of his sword.  And here we are – whole and intact, with magic coursing through our veins and our names inked into each other’s schedules a hundred times over. 

 

Lucky, lucky, lucky.  Charmed, really.  I assume the sudden reversal of fortune is all somehow supposed to make up for the shitstorm I call my formative years, but still. 

 

The shrill blow of the referee’s whistle cuts into my thoughts.

 

“Oh, thank snakes,” Bunce announces, rising to her feet as she stretches her short legs out.  “That one felt eternal.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” I disagree.  “Snow’s kit is fantastically tight.”  He’s lined up, shaking hands with players from the opposing team, but he turns to smile at us as if he’d heard me. 

 

“Keep it in your trousers,” she mutters, elbowing me in the side as she waves maniacally back at him.  (And Fiona really thinks _I’m_ the clingier one out of the two of us?)

 

I pretend as if I haven’t heard her.  Simon’s backside has successfully impaired my ability to craft a crushingly witty retort and it’s the closest I can get to an insult.  It’s mesmerizing, glorious, really, the legs of his shorts riding up the backs of his thighs as he bends to stretch his hamstrings.  He’s almost reached the toes of his blue boots when a tall bloke in an orange jersey cuts across the pitch to crowd in close.  His shadow falls over Simon and Simon blinks up, straightening from his hips with an unsure smile and an extended hand. 

 

But he doesn’t take it.  The tosser ignores it in favor of clapping Simon on the back, his fingers trailing down the length of his spine as his jaw continues working.  His hand dips lower and lower and lower still and I swear to Crowley I’ll make it so that he doesn’t have one at all, will tear his arm straight from out of its socket if it descends any further.  His palm pauses, pressing into Simon’s lower back and I’m on my feet as Simon’s stepping wide, turning his head to look at me with an open mouth.

 

“Is it just me or…?” Bunce trails off, touching her hand to my shoulder, as if its gentle weight could possibly prevent me from storming the pitch and dismembering the arrogant bastard if I really wanted to.  An amateur athlete’s no match for me at all – I could drain him dry in under a minute.  My fangs are practically itching, splitting out of my skull, and I briefly consider shrugging her off, but her ring’s glowing white, the band burning a warning against my skin, and I think better of it, sagging into my seat with my head in my hands.  Simon’s captain, a decent bloke and a competent forward named Fitz, has beat me to the scene anyway.  By the looks of it, he’s doing my job for me.    

 

“No,” I groan from around steepled fingers, letting out an uneven breath as I channel Father’s emotionless stone of a face.  I imagine I’ve been punctured (I have) and that I’m deflating (I am), the hot air blowing out of my lungs until there’s nothing.  I close my eyes and I’m tired, so tired, could fall into the blackness of it, but Simon isn’t here to pull me out of the void.  I cast out a line, deliberately forming the words from around clenched teeth.  “It’s been happening all the bloody time lately and it’s driving me fucking insane.”   

 

She sits next to me, leaning into my side.  I’ll smell like brownies for a week, but I don’t move away.  She’s as soothing as sage.  That is, until she speaks.  “What are you going to do about it?” she prods, as if there’s anything that can even be done.        

 

“Nothing.”  I shrug, and she delivers a stinging whack to my knee.  I deserve it.  Simon still shrugs enough for all three of us and we can’t encourage him, not matter how subtly.  If we do, we’ll end up communicating through grunts and hand signals like cave people.  I rub the imprint of her ring out of my leg until she clears her throat. 

 

There’s another thing we have in common.  “Nothing” isn’t good enough for people like us – we need to learn, need to ask, need to get down to the _something_.  I should have known better than to confide in her during my temporary moment of weakness, but if it’s the truth she’s after, I’ll give it to her.  I angle towards her, putting on my best smirk.  “Probably just shag the living daylights out of each other until the feeling passes.” 

 

She doesn’t take the bait, just presses her lips together in a frown.  “You boys are hopeless.  You’re still a pair of splendid morons as far as I’m convinced.  _Neither_ of you know how to use your words.  It’s no better than when you used to swing at each other,” she rants, shaking her head in disbelief.  “No wonder it took you eight years to figure it out.”

 

“Seven and a half,” I correct.  “Credit where it’s due, Bunce.  Shorter than that if you’re going off of mutual attraction.”  I arch an eyebrow at her.  “Much shorter.” 

 

“Ah,” she tilts her head and amused eyes study me from above her lenses.  “So how long were you waiting then?”   

 

“Who says it was me doing the waiting?”  Was I waiting?  I’d say for a miracle, maybe, but I had rarely let myself indulge in that idle fantasy.  Miracles didn’t exist for dark creatures like me (or so I’d thought – I’ve since been corrected).  It’d be more accurate to say that I’d been waiting for the end of my own delusions via my inevitable, fiery death.  I mean, I _had_ tried to hurry it all along (cue the miracle).  “Or that there was any waiting at all?” I deny, and I’ve clearly been spending too much time around Simon (he’s all sudden blurts and thoughtless babblings) because I slip, forcing out a laugh that’s more air than anything else as I admit, “It was _never_ going to happen.”

 

“Well, if you hadn’t just told me,” she begins, her cheeks raising in a satisfied smile, “there _was_ Agatha and then there’s the fact that Simon never used to think about anything at all until it was right under his nose, and then there’s also the recent and overwhelming evidence that you’re unbelievably and surprisingly sappy, and it’s not exactly hard to figure out that you were probably the one carrying the torch.”

 

That’s an understatement.  I’d wanted to light myself on fire with it. 

 

“Fine,” I concede.  The woman’s omniscient.  Either that, or Simon’s already spilled everything.  Probably the latter.  “Fifth year.”

 

“Makes sense,” she nods and her hair brushes against my neck.  “Simon was all over you that year.”  (He was, just not in the way I’d wanted.)  “So what did you do about it back then?  Back when it was Agatha?”

 

“Try to kill him,” I snort.  I never would have succeeded.  That task had been a fool’s errand (he’s a fool, but so am I – a fool in love).  ( _Merlin_ , I’m sicker than I thought.  It’s incurable.)  “Steal her away.  Make his life hell.  I think my current methods have evolved, wouldn’t you say?  Personal growth and what not.”  She looks at me darkly and I throw up my hands in response.  “What?  What can I do about it?  I think,” I pause, my fingers finding my hair as I snatch it away from my face, “Penny… I think it’s his magic.  It’s been like this ever since it came back and I’m not about to bring it up to him.  I’d fight off a hundred people a day if it meant he got to have magic.”

 

“ _Come on_ , Basil,” she implores with a shake of her head.  “You’re sharp.  You know that’s not it.  You said it yourself just now.  It’s something you can’t see because you never thought you would.”

 

“Enlighten me, then.”

 

“Maybe it’s reflected a little in his magic, sure, but Normals don’t even like magic – they subconsciously avoid it.  And his magic’s different now – it doesn’t drag you in like it used to.  But _he_ does.  Simon’s in love.  Of course he’s irresistible.  Look at him.”  She motions to the pitch.  Fitz has gotten him to laugh and his head’s thrown back, his curls tumbling over themselves.  He looks golden, glowing, like a fucking Greek God.  He’s still the sun and I’ll always be crashing into him, but now, I’m smashing right into every other planet in his orbit along my way.  What if this was always meant to end in flames?  There’s a lump in my throat that I can’t swallow until her hand comes to rest on top of mine.  “And it’s because of you.  He’s in love with _you_.  The least you can do is talk to him about it.” 

 

“And say what?”  Her eyes are too soft to glare into, so I turn my burning eyes to the ground.  “I may be a vampire, but I don’t want to act like one.  He’s not a victim in my thrall that I want to possess.”

 

“I don’t think bringing up how you feel automatically turns you into a controlling monster.”

 

“But why bother?”  I pick at the seam that runs along my inner thigh even though I know I shouldn’t.  “What could possibly change?”

 

“Because it’s bothering _you_.”  Her hand’s found mine again and I still, ceasing the assault on my trousers.  Five more minutes and I’d have been walking out of here in just my pants.  “And because Simon would want to know.”

 

I bark out a bitter laugh.  “I doubt that.”

 

“I don’t.”  She stands and her skirt swirls around her legs.  “I’m going to take off so I can clear out of the flat for a bit.  Give Simon my love.”

 

“You don’t have to.  I’m not about to argue with him.  Well, at least not in the usual way.”  I grin as she purses her lips together in disapproval.  “Stay.”

 

“Not if you’re serious about the shagging.  I’ll sexile myself voluntarily,” she huffs, swinging her bag onto her shoulder.  “It’s in my best interest for you two to sort out whatever this is before Micah comes.”

 

“Why?”  We’re not obnoxious about it (fuck, at least I don’t _think_ – I’m the definition of thorough and I can’t recall ever forgetting to cast for silence) and it shouldn’t even be obvious what we’re doing behind closed doors (excluding the newest spell I’ve had to add to the list, but it’s really just a precaution more than anything – it doesn’t necessarily _always_ mean we’re up to something).  “ **X marks the spot** too unsavory for you?”  Bunce has ( _had_ , hopefully) an atrociously annoying habit of bursting into Simon’s bedroom without knocking first.  ( _No_ , I had not wanted a cup of tea.)  (My mouth had otherwise been occupied.)  And although the door’s always firmly shut, there should be no mistaking the meaning of a blazing red marking now. 

 

“I’m afraid your magics will bust the door from off its hinges and I’ll see it all anyway.”  She squeezes her eyes shut as if she’s reliving some horrific trauma (it was a fairly tame act to walk into – thank Merlin I’m slow-moving in the mornings).  “Besides,” she adds, “silencing spells may work, but might I suggest a barrier spell or a towel at the least?  Your magics leak under the door.  It reeks of fire and brimstone and it sets my hair on end.  I had to take a dryer sheet to it the other day.”

 

I just smile.

 

“If not me, think of your poor cat,” she protests.  “Batty’s fluffier than I’ve ever seen her.  She’s going to need a buzz cut if you two keep it up.”

 

“You’re bluffing,” I scoff.  “You wouldn’t dare.”  I’d jinx Bunce into next week.  It takes a long time to grow hair this stunning.  (I should know.) 

 

“I might if you don’t listen,” she threatens, but her lips untwist and she’s sighing out, “Just.  Be good, Baz.  I love you both, and believe it or not, I love you two together.  Talk to him.  He’ll want to hear it.  Trust me.”

 

“Right,” I say.  “Bye Bunce.”

 

Crowley, her advice is as bad as Fiona’s. 

 

Well, maybe not quite. 

 

Fiona likely would have suggested leaving a steaming bag of shit in the grabby wanker’s bed.  That won’t do.  Firstly, I don’t know where the tactile twit lives, although I _could_ probably rectify that easily enough (vampire thing – I have the nose of a bloodhound).  Furthermore, we’ve already established that I’m not shitting in a bag. 

 

But I still pretend like I’m contemplating her words as I look off into the distance.

 

 

 

PENELOPE

 

It’s like trying to talk sense into a wraith (you can’t – they’re fixed, a shadow of what was.  All they can do is groan back).  He’d gone as pale as one too.  (Which is seriously saying something for a vampire, but I’m used to him with a bit more color in his cheeks since Watford.)  (Since _Simon_. _)_  I can’t help but fear that their relationship will ghost away too if he doesn’t get it together. 

 

It’s none of my business, I know that, but that hasn’t stopped me before – at least not where Simon’s concerned.  Simon _is_ my business.  Baz too now, by association, whether he likes it or not.

 

They could spit and kick and push each other down stairs when they were boys all they liked, but they’re adults now.  The saying’s overused, but it doesn’t make it any less true, and like I’m always telling Micah, communication is key.  It’s how we make it work with an ocean between us, and there might as well be one in between the two of them now, even if Baz insists that it’s only a puddle.  And I’d trusted Baz to be the mature one, but he’s gone mad as a bag of ferrets if he thinks shagging’s the answer to all of his anxieties.  It’s like slapping a Band-Aid on a werewolf bite and praying it’ll all go away before the full moon.  (Spoiler alert: it won’t.  It’ll only get worse.  _Much_ worse.)

 

Micah had better not fall under their infantile influence when he’s here either, or I’ll really let them have it (and not in the way they’re used to – I’ll be as subtle as a spell, as compassionate as a curse, as harmonious as a hex.)  They won’t even know what hit them (or where) when I’m through with them.  I’ll make it so they won’t be able to shag for a week.

 

 _Boys_.

 

Who needs them? 

 

It’s too bad that I do.

 

I really do.

 

And they need each other.

 

 

BAZ

 

He jogs over, flushed and sweaty and fucking perfect.  He’s panting a little, pink to the tips of his ears, and he’s so _alive_ that it makes my frozen heart beat warm in my chest, like winter melting into spring.  If life responds viscerally to death, then it’s just as true the other way around.  No living person could ever know the feeling, but it’s like being presented with the promise of everything when you’ve had nothing.  It shimmers and dances before your eyes, but it’s not a mirage – it’s real, and it’s right within your reach, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted.  _Life_ is all you’ve ever wanted.  Not to take it or to drink it, but to have it as if it was always your own.  If you’re alive, I imagine it’s like being confronted with the bleakness of nothing when you’ve had everything.  It’d be heavy and black, crawling at your throat and prickling at your eyelids.

 

That last part is just conjecture.  I wouldn’t really know. 

 

I don’t really remember. 

 

But I feel more alive than dead when I look at him.

 

“So it turns out that _was_ what it looked like,” he ventures.  His hand comes up to curl around the back of his neck as he toes a line in the grass.  “Thought he was just complimenting me on my technique.”  The blush on his cheeks intensifies as his eyes meet mine.  “Turns out it was a bit more.”

 

I don’t say anything.  What is there to say?   

 

 _I hate how other people just think they can touch you?_ He already knows that – he’d be thick not to, so what would be the point in bringing it up when it’d just make us both feel like shit?  It wasn’t like _he’d_ initiated anything.  He never does – he’s too good.  Too good for me. 

 

 _I hate that they have more guts than I ever did?_ I barely had the courage to even _look_ at him when we were at Watford, convinced my mask would slip and that my love for him would be written all over my face, and I’d have never done anything about it either if it wasn’t for him kissing the possibility into me.  I’d been petrified by my own cowardice, but he’s always been so bloody brave.  And I’m still so weak. 

 

_I hate that I don’t even have the guts now to tell you how I feel?_

Right.Like expressing insecurity has ever gone over well for anybody.  

 

I thought I’d been concealing mine well enough, but he grins impishly, raking his sweaty fingers through my hair in an irritating attempt at reversing my scowl.  It doesn’t work.  “Don’t be jealous, Bazzy,” he teases, looking up at me through his eyelashes as he steps in close.  “You know you’re it for me.”

 

I swat him away.  “Am not.” 

 

“Are so.  I know you and you’re doing that thing where your lips go all funny.”

 

Shite.  My lips have been pressed into a tight line and I focus on inflating them.

 

“Now you’re just pouting.”

 

I sneer.

 

“Better.”  He smirks and takes off, skipping circles around me.  He’s trying to cool down, but he’s still so hot, and it should be annoying, the way his enthusiasm knows no bounds, but it’s really fucking cute.  Just like him.  (I’m officially a goner – please send help.)  “So how was I?  Will I be a worthy enough teammate for the great Baz Pitch, elite forward and devilishly handsome class act?”

 

“Magnificent.”  I’m not being a smart-arse either.  His disruptive adventures with the Mage had kept him from practicing regularly at Watford and he’d been decent enough at tending goal then (given the amount of times I’d caught him watching me instead of the ball – _Crowley_ , had that ever been a headrush), but his current team already had an established goalkeeper and he’d had to fill in elsewhere.  Defender’s proved to be a better fit both physically (he’s making better use of his broad shoulders and strong legs) and mentally (he’s always known how to exploit the weaknesses of his opponents).  I could still evade him handily (I’m not _that_ blinded by love), but he’d at lease pose a challenge. 

 

“So is that a yes?” he presses. 

 

“I think you’ll do,” I concede, sniffing down at him from over my nose.  Of course he’ll do.  I’ve only been acting coy because I’m embarrassingly excited (that, and because I’ve needed him to sufficiently woo me.  Naturally, I’ve derived great pleasure from deliberately extending the courtship.)  (When he _really_ wants something, Simon Snow isn’t afraid to pursue it, and letting him follow me _has_ always been a thrill.)  (It’s pathetic, really, how much I love the attention.  I should probably feel more ashamed.)  This is one of my post-Watford fantasies coming to life, getting to play on the same team again.  It’s like a fucking wet dream.  And this time, the sexual tension is going to be unmistakable.  A football won’t even be able to slice through it.

 

“Prat.”  He rolls his eyes and places a warm hand on my shoulder, balancing on one leg.  “So, any chance you want to celebrate tonight?  Fitz invited the team and a couple others from uni to his flat to end the season and I thought it might be fun.  I know you two get on and it’d be nice, I think, to introduce you to some of my other friends, and –”

 

“- Sure,” I say automatically, even though I don’t want to go at all, not after earlier.  I’d prefer to have him all to myself, curled up on the sofa with Batty and a bag of crisps, laughing at some shit film together.  But, if given the option, I would rather be by his side than risk having him go to a house party alone, especially with some handsy prick on the loose. 

 

I want _my_ hands on Simon instead, want to erase the trail of that arsehole’s sticky invasive fingers.   I want to touch Simon where he couldn’t, want to hold onto him with everything I have.  I want it so badly my hands are _burning_ with it, itching through the flames.

 

I want to be the one who gets to be with him.    

 

I want Simon – always, and I want to be the one he’ll always want back.  I’ve wanted him for as long as I’ve known what _want_ even was and it tears away at me, all the ways I want him, all the ways I want to show him.  And he doesn’t even know it.  He’s standing innocent and inviting, blinking up at me in that stupidly sexy kit of his, and he has absolutely no bloody idea how much I want to take him in my arms.  I want to bring my mouth to the golden sheen of his skin, want to taste the salt of his sweat as his pulse beats under my tongue.  I’d have him right here if I could, would pull him right down into the green of the perfumed grass with me.

 

And everybody else may want him too, but nobody could ever want him as much as I do.

 

I want him more than I want to be _alive_. 

 

I’d considered taking Bunce’s advice, about being open and honest and communicative, but my approach just seems so much better.  We’re still all of those things anyway, when we’re pressed together in between the sheets.  It’s there where I’m not afraid to ask for what I need, and where Simon’s full of all of the words I need to hear.  It’s there where we can talk for hours. 

 

 

SIMON

 

I’d prefer a night in with Baz honestly.  He always lets me pick what we watch and I always choose something that’s utter crap just so I can set him off.  It’s so cute, how he gets when he finds something stupid.  It starts with little huffs of air from out of his crooked nose, and then he crosses his arms and rolls his eyes as he tries to contain himself until he finally starts in on his little cutting remarks and we’re both laughing, laps full of each other’s feet.  I’d even had a title in mind too, but this party seems like the kind of thing my magickal psychologist would encourage me to go to, and there really won’t be a better opportunity for a while with the end of term sneaking up upon us.

 

And I suppose I’ll have tons of opportunities to annoy Baz this summer.

 

I bend for my bag, digging around for my trainers.  I’d packed an extra set of clothes in case Penny and Baz had wanted to go out, so I should be able to get myself presentable here, although I’d much rather shower at home where I have unrestricted access to Baz’s full arsenal of products. (He’s slowly turning me into a well-groomed snob, much to his delight.)  We _could_ fit in a quick trip back to the flat, but Fitz had said to show up any time after 9 and daylight’s fading fast, streaking in oranges and reds across the sky. 

 

“Have you seen…,” I begin, but Baz is handing me my trainers, and the look on his face makes me think maybe we will be going home after all. 

 

It’s like we’ve gone into extra time and he wants to possess _me_ instead of the ball.  And I may know how to cover him (I know him better than anyone), but Baz is tactical with a nice first touch.  I’m hardly a challenge – I don’t have many defenses at all when it comes to him. 

 

He can score on me all he wants.

 

It’s _his_ hands I want on me, not some other bloke’s, and I want to take Baz on one-on-one, want to tackle _him_ to the bed.  The adrenaline of victory’s still running hot in my veins and I know I’ve already lost, but I’m more than game if he wants a fight to the finish. 

 

Nobody expects me of all people to be on time anyway.   

 

“You can take off your boots, but don’t strip off your kit,” he instructs as his fingers brush against mine.  I can feel the magic sparking off of them even after I’ve taken my trainers from him.  _Fuck_.  If this is any indication of how being teammates is going to go, then we might as well be going to Wembley.  Competition’s like a fucking aphrodisiac to him and we’ll both be playing to win.     

 

“But I’m sweaty,” I protest, even though I’m not sure I care if Baz doesn’t.

 

“And?”  He lifts an eyebrow.  “That’s the point, Snow.  I’m going to lick it off.”

 

 _Oh God_.  I should have known.  Baz doesn’t ever play fair – even when we’re playing for the same side.  

“You’re disturbed.”  I try to follow it with “and I love it,” but my mouth’s gone slack and all I can do is swallow.

 

He nods in agreement, his fangs glinting in the setting sun.  “Ask anyone.”

 

 

 

BAZ

 

He won’t have to ask anyone, when I’m through with him.

 

I’ll show him. 

 

Again and again and again.

 

 

SIMON

 

The door to the flat slams shut and I’m off my feet, swinging over Baz’s shoulder as he stomps us down the hall to my bedroom.  I tear at any part of him I can get, scratching at the fabric of his shirt, pulling at the belt that bars access to his trousers, but I can’t do _anything_ , and I let out a frustrated sound from the back of my throat as he turns to bite at my arse through my shorts.  I’m hard already (I’ve been), and I try to drive my hips into his chest just to make some kind of contact, but the angle’s bad and I’m losing now, already, at this match. 

 

All I do is lose when it comes to Baz. 

 

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

 

He throws me to the bed and I try to work at the buttons on his shirt in between bruising kisses, but my fingers twitch and shake and I’m getting nowhere fast again, so I pull Baz’s wand from out of his trouser pocket.  I don’t even know what to cast for, I can’t remember the right spell, but my mind’s gone desperate, and I pant out, “ ** _Bust your buttons_**.”  There’s the sound of threads splitting and his buttons rain down upon me, but it’s what he deserves for wearing shirts so infuriatingly hard to gain entry into and I really don’t fucking care. 

 

That is, until he glowers at me. 

 

“Sod off,” I growl, shoving my hands into his open shirt.  “I’ll fix it later.”

 

His eyes narrow.  “Using what spell?”

 

“You really want me to figure it out right this instant?  I’m happy to stop doing _this_ ,” I pause, pinching a nipple, “if that’s really what you care about right now.”

 

“It’s really not.  It’s you.  _Always_ you, you absolute nightmare,” he mutters, licking a line from the mole on my neck to the hollow of my throat.  “Plus you know what this means.”

 

“What?”  I tilt my head back, trying to give him _more_ ; trying to _get_ more. 

 

He pulls off, grinning.  “I get to buy you another shirt.”

 

“ _Me_?  Shouldn’t it be me buying _you_ the shirt?”

 

“I regret to inform you that it doesn’t work that way, love.”

 

“But, I – and you… the –”

 

“- Simon?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Shut up,” he says, flipping me over and into a cluster of buttons.

 

His lips are like an iron, burning into my skin as he slowly strips off my kit, piece by agonizing piece, until I’m left on all fours in only my knee-high socks.  He kisses from the top of my spine to the curve of my arse and I’m already moaning in anticipation; thinking, wishing, _hoping_ about what he’ll do next.  I know I’d stopped him from it, the last time he’d been like this (only because I couldn’t fucking _wait_ ), but I really fucking want him to keep on going.  It’s all I’ve been thinking about, since – Baz using his tongue to spread me wide open.    

 

“Simon,” he begins, and I can feel his breath on my skin.  “Can I… oh fuck, Crowley, can I use my mouth?”

 

“Yes.  Baz… Baz, _please_.  Anything.  _Anything_ you want.” 

 

Yes, yes, oh _God_ I’d said _yes_.  My fingers clutch into the duvet, my arse wiggling in the air and into the palms of his violin-calloused hands.  And _fuck_ , his tongue’s _there_ and his crooked nose is buried in between my arse cheeks, and I really can’t believe I’m letting him do this, but I’m also wondering why the fuck we haven’t done this sooner.  The sinful cool-heat of his tongue probes and licks inside of me, thrusting slow and slick and primal and obscene, and _fuck,_ fuck, I _love_ him.  Him and his tongue and his cock and his magic.  And his hands.  His fucking hands.  They’re grabbing at me and I’m coming apart in them, pushing my arse back into his grasp.  I want more, _need_ more, and I tell him so.  I’m _begging_ for it in pleas that are half-words, half-sounds until his fingers finally take pity on me, wrapping themselves around my erection.  And he’s pulling me off as I’m crying out and I don’t last long, I _can’t_ , not like this, and I fucking dissolve, trembling onto my forearms as I shoot like a star into his hand.

 

I’m breathing hard into the mattress, my muscles fatigued and my heart skipping like I’ve played the entirety of a match, but there’s still another half to go.

 

I’ll move.  Soon. 

 

“Baz?”

 

Another beat.  Another breath.

 

“Yes?”

 

I can’t.

 

“Will you… will you flip me over again?” I ask, and I’m staring at the ceiling for only a second until he replaces the white of the walls.  He hovers over me, his concerned eyes flashing to my face.

 

“All right?”  His hand’s on my forehead, brushing back a matted curl, and I lean into it.   

 

“Yeah – yes.  Sorry.”  (I’m out of breath.  It’s embarrassing.)  “Fuck,” I laugh with whatever’s left in my lungs, scrubbing at my face.  “Baz, you can… you can buy me however many shirts you want.”

 

His eyes soften and the corner of his mouth quirks up as he picks a button from off of my chin.  “I won’t forget you said that.  Ever.  Now, come along.  To the shower with you.”

 

“But you… I didn’t –”

 

“Spit it out, darling.  We’re on a time schedule here, and I’ve burnt up most of it.”

 

“You.”  I motion to his erection.  It’s fucking _glistening._ “You didn’t –”

 

“- We don’t have time,” he argues, waving me off.  “ _And_ for a moment there, I thought I’d finally succeeded in killing you.  Probably best if we keep you alive.”

 

“Baz, don’t.  At least let me suck you.”  Baz thinks I have the table manners of a wild dog, but I am familiar with the concepts of common courtesy and mutual satisfaction.  It’s only polite. 

 

Plus, yeah, I really do want to.  My mouth’s already watering.  

 

“ _Later_.”

 

“ _How_?” 

 

“I know it’s a difficult concept for you to understand, but I _can_ function without it.”

 

“ _Please_.”  I can almost taste him, heavy on my tongue.  “Maybe _I_ can’t function without it.”

 

“ _Fine_ ,” he relents.  “If you insist.”  He uncrosses his arms, trying not to look pleased.

 

That’s all I need and I’m revitalized, pushing off the bed and onto him.  I take him into my mouth, and it’s just what I’d wanted, what I’d needed to do for all he does for me, for all he _is_ to me.  His nails dig into my scalp and it feels so fucking good, Baz hard on my tongue and his fingers winding in my hair, and my cock responds, springing back to life again.

 

“Baz?”

 

“Simon?”

 

“I could go again, if you wanted…”

 

“Wanted what?”

 

“You _know_.”

 

“No, I really don’t.” 

 

He fucking knows.  He just wants to hear me say it, the wanker.

 

“If you wanted to fuck me.”

 

“I would want nothing else ordinarily, but we’re going to be late as is.  Now if you wouldn’t mind, I was coming along nicely –”

 

“- Please.”  Baz can’t resist it when I beg. 

 

But he grits his teeth.  “No.”

 

“Please.”  He loves it when I look up at him while I’m sucking him off, so I do, licking at the head of his cock indecently as I twist up on the shaft.

 

He squeezes his eyes shut instead.  “No.”

 

“ _Please_ ,” I repeat again, grazing my teeth along his hipbone.  His fingers tighten in my hair as he draws in an inhale and I _know_ this will work.

 

“ _No_.”

 

Stubborn git.  Baz is bloody obsessed with punctuality.  As if you could possibly be late to a party, and a uni one at that?  Isn’t there some saying about fashion he’d appreciate anyway?  He’s all about grand entrances.  You’d think he’d enjoy sauntering into a room, all eyes on him.

 

Whatever.  Just like a proper magician, I’ve saved my best trick for last.

 

I sit back, leaning onto one palm as I wank myself with the other one and suddenly, he doesn’t look so disinterested anymore.  His mouth’s gone open (mouth breather!) and his grey eyes have gone dark and wild and I want to watch him watching me so badly, but I know the more _I’m_ into it, the hotter _he’ll_ get, so I let my eyes close.  I think about him fucking me, about how it makes me feel complete when he moves inside me, about how in love with him I am, about how my magic loves him too, about how our magics cling together like they never want to separate and I’m moaning out, begging, “Please.  Baz, please.  I want you.  I want you on me.  Want you in me.”

 

“ _Fuck_ , Simon.  I…,” he starts, but he’s biting into his lip and shaking his head.

 

“Shower!” I blurt out, and he raises an eyebrow.  “Then we can both get what we want.”

 

“I don’t want a shower – you _need_ one.  I _want_ you.  But you have a point.”  He raises his chin in thought.  “You know, I really hate it when you’re smarter than me.  It just isn’t right,” he drawls, extending his hand.  I take it and he pulls me into him.  “It goes against the natural order of the universe.  Someone out there, another helpless vampire is falling in love with an irresistibly annoying mage.”

 

“They’d better look elsewhere,” I say.  “Because this one’s already taken.”

 

He squeezes his fingers and I’m rising onto unsteady legs, falling behind him and then into the shower, where he gives me what I want, where I get all of him.  My thighs are shaking and my socks are soaked, weighing me down, but he’s holding me up, his arm strong around my waist as he pushes inside of me.  And I thought it’d be quick and frantic, that we’d be ripping it out of each other so that we could be on our hurried way, but it’s like he’s forgotten about anything else but me, like time has stopped still for the both of us.  It’s slow and it’s gentle with kisses to the back of my neck as he draws in deep.  It may be unrushed, but the flames build all the same, his magic settling into my skin like fire. 

 

Here, with Baz, it’s right, it’s right, it could never be wrong, and my magic rattles in my chest, charging steadily until I feel I could burst with its power.  I could face down a chimera, I could send home a dragon, I could pour it all into the Humdrum again if I had to and I would, I would, I would every time if it meant I’d have Baz with me at the end.  I want to tell him so, want to tell him that I’ll never let him go, but there’s a half-sob, half-moan that’s stuck in my throat and fuck, I’ve never been good with words because my emotions always get in the way.  

 

“Do you like that, Simon?”  His lips press into my spine and the water’s so hot, but I shiver.  “Me on every inch of you, filling every part of you?”

 

“I _love_ you fucking me.  Baz, I love _you_.  It’s all I want, I – fuck, _there_.  All I want is for you to keep on fucking me.”

 

“You’re the only one I want.  _You_ ,” he punctuates, pounding inside of me like a heartbeat.  (Slow and strong, like his.)  It isn’t exactly new and I’ve known it all along, but it’s simple, and it rings through me like a truth.  And I think – I think I’ve finally figured it all out.  He’d never admit it, but sometimes Baz isn’t good with words either – at least not when it comes to asking for what he needs.  He gives and he gives, but he never asks for anything back.  And he’d never make me say it, but I do anyway because I want to, because it’s true, and because, for him, I have the words. 

 

“I’m yours,” I breathe.  “Always.  Only you can do this to me.  Fuck, Baz, I’m so in love with you,” I sob out, and I’m not crying, but it feels like I am.  It feels like it’s consuming me and I let it, let the fire of his magic burn away at me until there’s nothing left but him.  “I’m yours.  Completely.  Forever.  Take whatever you want from me.  It’s yours – you can have it, you can have all of me.  Just.  Fuck.  Baz, take it.  _Take it_.”

 

“Simon, darling, I love you,” he sighs, and my heart, my blood, my magic – it all seizes, constricting in my chest.  I don’t think I’ll ever love any other combination of words more.  “I love you,” he repeats, thrusting into me.  It’s on the right side of rough and I arch my back, offering myself up to him.  “I love you.”  Again.  “I love you.”  And again.  “Nobody but you.”  The tightness in my lungs uncoils, releasing life back into my veins, and it’s roaring, sweeping through me like a flood until I’m struggling to stay afloat, my fingers scrabbling against the tiles, droplets of water catching under my nails.  And he loves me, I know it, but he’s relentless, driving into that spot inside of me until my knees are weak and he has to hold me up.  I’m falling fast, spilling out, and I must pull him down with me too because he’s crashing into me, long and hot and hard and overflowing with his magic.

 

He presses himself against me and his heart hammers into my skin, beating solid and steady against my back.  He’s so _alive_ and I wish he could see it, could feel it for himself, but he _is_ undeniably part-vampire too.  He bites into my shoulder with his bottom teeth, and I know it’ll leave a mark, but I don’t mind.  My nails have done much worse.  Penny saw him shirtless once, when he’d been blindly stumbling for the kettle one morning before I could help him.  (Baz is tragic before sunrise and it’s probably why she’d started asking if we wanted tea in the first place, so he only has himself to blame for what happened later, but that’s another story).  (One I’d like to forget.)  She’d (incorrectly – astonishingly) assumed he’d gotten into an argument with Batty.  (Like that would ever happen – _he’s_ a smitten kitten and Batty knows it).  I hadn’t corrected her.  (I may have also mentioned something about a struggle over the cat carrier while Baz had snorted into his cup.)

 

“Can you stand yet?”

 

“You?” I ask.  “Barely.”

 

He turns me over so that he can scowl at me.  His hair’s wet, slicked back from off his face, and it makes his cheekbones stand out.  They look extra sharp – like they could cut me.  “You’re insufferable,” he grumbles.  “I really don’t know why I love you sometimes.”

 

I touch his face, testing out my theory, and his glare weakens.  He’s soft, with me, and I smile at him through the steam.  “I love you all the time.”

 

“I love you too,” he says, rolling his eyes at me, “but you’re in need of a good scrubbing down.  Come here.”  He opens his arms, and I step into them, resting my head on his shoulder.  And I’d always hated how Baz had been taller than me before, but not now, not here.  Here it has its advantages.  Like Baz massaging his posh shampoo into my hair (I’ve tried to return the favor before, raised up on the tips of my toes, but he has a whole _technique_ that I’m hopeless at replicating.  He claims I tangle it.)  (Well, he doesn’t seem to be complaining about my fingers in his hair when we’re in the bedroom, but fine.)

 

And I didn’t think I’d ever get clean, not with all the filthy things we’d said and done, but Baz had lathered me in cedar and bergamot, and it had all washed away as the water beat down around us.

 


	6. Plus 1

BAZ

 

Simon’s gone to refill our drinks and I’m sitting where he left me on the balcony, watching through the glass doors as I wait for someone to make a move.  It’ll happen, I know it, he’s too beautiful for it not to.  The purple of the night sky had been behind him as the strung-up lights had gleamed golden in his curls, and although he’d been beside me, my stomach had twisted in anticipation as I’d realized that it wouldn’t be long before he was approached again.  I can feel the inevitability in the air, thick and heavy and cutting in close.  It’s probably another vampire thing – this faint feeling of foresight. 

 

One of these days, I’ll resign myself to the inevitable necessity of tracking down more information on what I really am.  I’ll have a proper chin wag with Nicodemus in the dungeon of a dive bar and we’ll create a cheeky master list that I can refer to during times like now.  I’ll title it _All the Vampire Things that Are Actually True and All the Ones that Are Bollocks, Just Like You Thought_.  (I won’t let Simon read it – keeping him guessing is the only joy I get out of being undead.)

 

No one’s joined me yet (the glaring absence of my soul must be more obvious than even I’d thought possible), but snippets of passing conversation have floated out through the open doors to keep me company.  Apparently there’s another gay couple here who are obnoxiously in love, but I don’t see them. 

 

All I see is Simon. 

 

He’s smiling, working the room without even trying, his grin infectious.  It’s like flower heads bending forward to meet the warmth of the sun.  Something as dark as me should absorb his light, but even I can’t eclipse him.  Maybe my shadow makes him shine even brighter. 

 

Any way you look at it (magickal or otherwise), this is all still my fault.

 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he calls, stumbling over the doorframe.  He’s not pissed (yet), but he turns to glare at the threshold as if it had just popped into existence with the sole intention of spiting him.  He’s a special kind of idiot.  (I love him.)

 

“You insult me,” I scoff, curling my lip in feigned annoyance.  I’d wait all night for him (Chomsky knows I’m weak).  He hands me my drink and I take a sizeable pull in an effort to chase away the foreboding feeling that something’s going to happen – and soon.

 

“I shouldn’t.”  He pulls out his chair, plunking himself into it with the grace of a cow, and the panic lessens, especially when he continues, “Not when I was just bragging you up.”    

 

“You didn’t.”

 

“I did.  I’m being accused of keeping you all to myself.”  I wish he would, especially if he’s going to be smiling at me like that.  His lop-sided grin does bad things to my self-restraint.  “Are you ready to come in and meet everyone yet?  I think they’re all here.  _Finally_ ,” he stresses, rolling his eyes at me.  Turns out, our fashionably late was still somewhat early, which is why we’ve been able to claim the balcony for ourselves for so long.  Simon will never let me forget this either – it will forever be the example that sustains his chronic lateness. 

 

Do I want to go inside?  Not really.  I want to – eventually.  It’s important for me to meet people who are important to him, but tonight has me uneasy.  My senses are naturally heightened to begin with, but they’ve been amplified, my nerves flayed open.  What happens when someone chats him up again?  What if they think I’m not good enough for Simon?  What’ll I do if they think I’m some posh gay wanker?  (I guess that last one _would_ be true, literally.)  I just need to absorb some of him first, need the softness of his curves to take off some of my edge, so I ask, “Stay with me.  Just a minute.”

 

His gorgeous lips are secure around his straw, but he makes a noise in his mouth that sounds suspiciously like, “Why?” 

 

“Maybe I want _you_ all to myself.”  It’s not a lie – not exactly.

 

“Hm,” he considers, as if it’s fifth year again and he’s caught me plotting, like he knows something I haven’t even told him.  He smiles smugly, and I know he’s got me when he adds, “Why’s that?  Are we feeling _jealous_?”

 

“Of what, exactly?”  I won’t admit it.  I can’t.  If I do, we’ll fall down into the rabbit hole of my insecurities, and there won’t be a wonderland waiting on the other side.  I draw him closer instead, pulling him in by his collar as his eyes go wide.  I’m not exactly one for PDA (it always leads to wanting more), but Simon loves it, and I need _something_ to neutralize the acidic dread that’s churning inside of me. 

 

“How could I be when I get to do this?” I whisper against his lips. 

 

And then I kiss him. 

 

 

SIMON

 

Baz isn’t the type to kiss me like this in public (or at all, really.  He never does, if I think about it.)  (The Leavers Ball was an anomaly that hasn’t repeated itself since.  Now that I’m still thinking about it, I suppose I did initiate that one, and it’s not like he would have left me hanging in front of all of Watford.)  Everything Baz does makes me want to kiss him, but this – this is more than a kiss.  It’s a proper fucking snog.  It’s his tongue, teasing against mine and his fingers, long and twisting in the ends of my hair and his hands, cool around my neck.  It’s the kind of kiss that would normally have me searching frantically for an empty room, but I know Baz.

 

Something’s wrong.   

 

“Baz, what’s gotten into you?” I yelp when he releases me, adjusting into a whisper when I see the beginnings of a sneer forming on his face.  “Are you pissed?  Our bottle of gin’s nearly half-gone and I _know_ you’re randy when you drink.”

 

“No?”  He looks at me like we’re back in Elocution and I’ve stuttered out the wrong spell (it’s a look I’m extremely familiar with).  “I’m a vampire, not a bloody shapeshifter.  I’ve been sitting here the whole time.”

 

“Oh.  Right.  I know we meant the bottle for everyone, but still,” I pause, shaking my head, “it’s not on.  But seriously, are you okay?  Do you want to leave?”

 

“I haven’t even met your friends yet.”  He shifts in his seat, rubbing at his forehead as he sighs, “Don’t be stupid.  There’s already your stupid eyes and your stupid skin and your stupid hair...”

 

“ – My hair’s stupid?”  I’m still not convinced he hasn’t snuck himself more of the gin.  I have no idea what he’s going on about – most of my hair’s covered tonight.  Penny bought me this wicked snapback as an early birthday present and only the ends of my curls are poking out from underneath it.  There’s a little gold set of vampire teeth stitched onto the front and it’d been more of a joke than anything, but Baz still hasn’t found the humor in it.  He thinks it might arouse suspicions of his vampirism, which I suppose it could if Normals weren’t out there looking for the sparkly old-fashioned ones from _Twilight._ (Baz might be strikingly good-looking, but that’s about where the similarities end.  He’s no Edward Cullen.  Baz radiates cool.  Edward just… doesn’t.)  (Sorry, Bella.)  (Although, I guess if Edward really was as good in bed as Baz is, then I somewhat get it.)  Besides, I wear it backwards anyway, so I can all but guarantee no one’s checking out the back of my head for clues (I’m no Professor Quirrell).  (Baz and I have clearly been watching too many fantasy films lately.)

 

“Stupidly beautiful.”  He takes my hand in his, leaning in to kiss me again.  He tastes like cinnamon and gin.  Fuck the party.  I could ignore everyone else, I could stay out here all night, I could… but no.  His lips feel different, like they’re pressed together, and Crowley, that has to be it, although there’s no reason for him to be jealous now – we’re all alone.  But Baz is _hot_ when he’s jealous and his magic’s already sparking at my skin and fuck, we’d better leave soon if this is what he wants.

 

“I’m in for it later, aren’t I?”  I grin over at him when we part.

 

“You’re so sure there will be a later,” he smirks, as if I haven’t figured him out.

 

“I _know_ ,” I growl.  “Your mouth… it’s doing that thing again,” I say, and his lips are back on mine, shutting me up.  But I’m not finished.  I’m not a maniac or a moron and I know I’ve got him and I need him to admit it.  He’s making it hard for me to keep focused, but I press on, “I thought I’d tired you out earlier, but you’re insatiable.”  My face has gone warm and I know I’m blushing, thinking about the places Baz’s tongue has been.  “Not that I’m complaining.  I’m not going to pass you up when you’re like this.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Jealous.”

 

“I’m _not_.”  His eyes narrow, commanding me to back down, but I know I’m right. 

 

“You _are_.”  I thrust out my chin in defiance.  If Baz wants a challenge, he’ll get one.  We’ve been challenging each other since we were 11 and I’m not about to surrender now.  “I’ve figured it out.  You act bored and collected when someone flirts at me, like today at the match, and then you take me home and do this.”  I lift up my shirt, where the imprints of his fingertips have formed bruises around my waist.  They’re already fading, but they’re visible, a faint purple under the lights.

 

His face crumples and goes white, and he’s agonizing, sticken and somber, “Fuck.  _No_.  I’m sorry, Simon, I didn’t mean to…”  His hand reaches for me, but then withdraws, as if he’s afraid of hurting me.  

 

 _Shite._ This wasn’t the reaction I’d been anticipating.  I’d just been trying to prove my point, not make him feel like some kind of heavy-handed villain.  It’s not like that at all (it’s really not, Baz is _all_ about asking for permission.  I think it’s a vampire thing – he has to be welcomed into anywhere that isn’t public.)  (I _think_ so, at least?  I never know with him.)  And even if it was like that (which it isn’t), it’s not like it hurts when he’s doing it either. 

 

I think my blood just runs close to my skin.  I flush more easily than anyone else I’ve ever met.  Baz loves it (it _has_ to be a vampire thing).  He exploits it to no end, although it’s not like it takes much more than the deliberate raise of an eyebrow (Merlin help me).  I suppose he’s always known how to make it boil, but it’s not simmering with anger these days.

 

And isn’t this the best part about being with another bloke?  Not having to be so delicate?  I’d been afraid to rumple Agatha’s _silks_.  Could you imagine anything else?  (I couldn’t.  Not with anyone other than Baz.)  Baz and I have always pushed and pulled and tackled each other and now that we’re together, it’s no different.  It just involves a lot less clothing. 

 

“Baz, I don’t care,” I say, taking his hands in mine.  They’ve gone cold and I kick myself for ever having brought this up.  “I love you gentle and careful, but I love it like this too, when you let yourself let go.  It’s… hot when you get wild.”

 

“Fuck, Simon, do you _hear_ yourself?” He questions, incredulous.  He tears a hand away to slash it through his hair.  “Losing control isn’t good for a vampire.”

 

I take it back, rubbing at his thumb.  “You’d never bite me,” I insist.  We both know it.  He can’t argue this point at least.  Baz is always so deliberate with his mouth, and he’d never ever hurt me.  He wouldn’t even think about it.  He still won’t let me touch his fangs and he made me promise to stop asking.  And he’s rarely ever even thirsty anymore (did you know you can just _buy_ blood from a butcher?  The one around the corner thinks I’m obsessed with black pudding, which, gross.  I’ll eat just about anything, but that’s where I draw the line.  I still pretend I eat it for every meal though because I’d do anything for Baz.  Obviously.)  In all the time we’ve been together, I’ve never thought about digging my cross out from the bottom of my Watford trunk.  Not even once. 

 

“Have I really been doing this to you?”  He’s letting me hold his hands, but he closes his eyes.  “I haven’t even noticed.  Shit, Simon.  _I’m_ the horrible boyfriend.  This is my worst nightmare come to life.”

 

“Stop being dramatic,” I sigh forcefully.  “It doesn’t even hurt.  You know I’d kick you in the bollocks if you did something that did.  And they heal quick.  Look.”  I raise my shirt again and the marks have already turned blush pink.  “I think it’s your magic.  It soothes.”  It’s an odd thing.  Baz’s magic burns like a flame, but it’s always protecting me.  It’s like standing by a bonfire and always being the perfect distance away.  I can feel the warmth, but I’m never set on fire.  (Well, at least in the literal sense.)

 

“I’m sorry.”  He looks less horrified, but he hangs his head.  “I won’t – ”

 

“- I told you.  I don’t mind.  It’s the opposite of minding, actually.”  I squeeze his hand.  “It reminds me of where you’ve been.”

 

His head snaps up, his eyes blazing.  “I shouldn’t have the subconscious need to mark my territory, Simon,” he hisses, but I just keep holding on.  I try to focus my magic, try to let it comfort him, and his face falls as he lets out a bitter half-laugh.  “I trust you with everything I have, with my head and my heart, but my body must have other fucking ideas.”

 

I don’t know what to make of this.  He’s talking nonsense.  I’m nearly as frustrated as he is. 

 

For fuck’s sake, there’s nobody else but Baz.  Nobody else could ever compare to him.  What the fuck has he been working himself into a strop for?  He has to know there’s nothing to be worried about.  I’ve been obsessed with him since we were first years.  Everybody knew it.  (I’d be more embarrassed about it if I wasn’t already so far gone.) 

 

Nobody likes it when people make eyes at their partner.  Fuck, it probably happens to me every day (he doesn’t even realize it, the gorgeous fuck), but this is something deeper, something _else_.  If I think about how long this has been going on… it’s been months.  Months of him not telling me how he’s felt, months of him hiding this from me, and like the clichéd saying goes, I’m not angry, but I am disappointed.  After the Mage had passed, Baz had kept telling me to express how I felt, kept reminding me to use my words.  Well then, what the hell is this?

 

“Want to know what I think?”  I don’t leave him room to respond.  He’s going to listen to me.  “Maybe people assume we’re not together because you barely touch me outside of closed doors.”  Fuck, I hadn’t even realized how much that had bothered _me_ until now. 

 

We talk all day, every day, but maybe Penny’s right.  Maybe this communication thing is something we should actually be doing when it comes to the harder stuff.  If we both don’t know about all this shit, then neither of us can do anything about it.  I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him – I’ll fight through whatever challenges come our way, and I need him fighting beside me, not dancing around hurting my fucking feelings because he still doesn’t think he’s good enough for me.  (I know about that one too, thanks to Penny.)  (She’s the most observant person I’ve ever known.)

 

“And maybe you think you don’t deserve me, which, what does that even mean?  It would be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard by the way, so please don’t say it or I’ll write to Watford to tell them they should rescind your top marks.”  His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but I don’t stop, I just keep blazing on. 

 

“Maybe a small part of you still doesn’t think that this is real.  Well, wake up, Pitch.  I’m yours and you’re mine.”  I thump him on the center of his chest.  If we focused our magics, there’d be a gold thread linking the two of us together.  “I’m not leaving.  You’re stuck with me for a long time.  Hopefully forever, if you play your cards right and stop being so thick about how much I fucking love you.”  His face is as blank as a slate, but I continue.  This is as cathartic as my therapy sessions.  “You can question my fashion sense,” (it had needed work, admittedly) “you can question my diet,” (I know that much butter is bad for my arteries and I do need a firm reminder every now and again) “and I’ll even let you get away with questioning my intelligence every once in a while, but don’t question my taste in boyfriends, because I’m really, truly, positively confident that I’ve got this one right.”

 

I kiss him hard, then grab his drink before he can say anything.  “Want another?” I ask, but I don’t bother waiting for him to answer.  I stalk away, leaving him sitting in his chair, his grey eyes unblinking and unfocused.  And even though I hadn’t known about whatever _this_ is, I know he’ll need time to think.

 

 

BAZ

 

What the fuck is happening?  I’m marking up his skin like a fucking… _vampire_ (Aleister fucking Crowley, how the fuck is my _subconscious_ so evil?), but because I keep my traitorous hands off of him in public, he thinks I’m ashamed of him?  It should be the other way around.

 

He’s wrong.  I _don’t_ deserve him.  I never have.  I never will.  He could do so much better.  He should be with someone lighter than me, someone uncomplicated.  Merlin knows we have enough baggage together to fill the cargo hold of an airplane.  If I were stronger, I’d set him free, but I’m not. 

 

I’ll always be so weak. 

 

On the bright side, this must have been the shitstorm I’d felt brewing in my bones.  Unless this is the calm before a bigger, more gigantic shitstorm.  But I don’t think so.  I feel fine (other than being thoroughly fucking disgusted with myself).  The space behind my eyes has stopped blinking red and other than feeling like I need a drink (the bastard took the last sips of mine with him), my nerves have settled.  I’m off high-alert. 

 

That is, until I hear someone saying Simon’s name and then the word boyfriend. 

 

Being a vampire is absolute crap (I’m absolute crap), but I’m suddenly grateful for my heightened senses.  I’d only been half-listening before, letting the mindless chatter drone on around me.  I’d been sick of hearing about that dopey couple who are so in love, especially now that Simon’s also disgusted by me and my careless idiocy, and so I’d mostly tuned out the conversation drifting from inside, but my interest is piqued now.  Is it obvious we’ve had a row?  (Was that even a row?)  Have I been outed as a creepy vampire?  (We’d thrown around the word enough, even if it was quietly.)  The possibilities are endless.

 

“Yes, over there.”  Two girls are talking in whispers by the window.  I can still hear them, of course.  I could hear the sound of a rat scuttling by on the street below if I wanted to.  (I don’t.)  (Thank Crowley my days of draining rats in the catacombs are behind me.)  “On the balcony by the potted plants.” 

 

Paranoia may be another vampire thing (I wouldn’t be surprised at this point), but this _has_ to be about me.  I’m the only one by the potted plants.  In fact, I’m the only one on the balcony at all.  I’ve been leaning back in my chair against the wall, practicing my best bored and apathetic look.   

 

“ _Phwoar_.  He looks like a bloody model.  No wonder Simon never shuts up about him.”

 

And then it comes crashing in, everything I’d heard from earlier.

 

When I’d been alone before, a brunette had taken a step onto the balcony, then turned around when her friend had yanked her back inside.  I’d assumed it was due to some hidden evolutionary instinct that prevents a sane person from being alone with a vampire (Simon’s is clearly missing), but moments later, I’d heard someone saying, “Don’t fall in love with that one.  He’s taken and it’s hopeless.”

 

Another voice.  “They’ve a cat together too.  He even showed me a picture.  Bet they’re as obsessed with her as they are with each other.”

 

Another, saying, “What a story.  I mean, your roommate turns out to be your soulmate?  How lucky does it get?”

 

Yet another.  “That’s him.  Tall, pale and handsome, right?  He said he’s _the one_.  He said they’ll get _married_.”

 

I’ve been dreaming about putting a ring on his finger too much lately, fantasizing about it more and more although I know it’s far off (we’re only 19 and although I’m dead-set on a life together, I suppose I should probably practice _some_ small amount of self-control when it comes to him).  I want to desperately anyway, but my imaginings of the future had almost been enough to get me through my current torment. 

 

Simon Snow has always been written into my fantasies in permanent ink, but in this one, there isn’t any blood, and he isn’t ridding the world of me.  He’s pledging himself to me, and I’m vowing to have and to hold him beyond death, and then, there’s kissing, finally, after I slide a gold band onto his finger.  It will be the day that _this_ will all come to an end, that the world will have its sign; that they’ll know he’s off-limits (like that would ever stop some of these love-struck morons, but still). 

 

I’d never been so delusional as to think it was something he might be thinking about too. 

 

Like it’s something that will actually _happen_.

 

And I’m not jealous.  Not anymore.  Everyone knows him here and no one’s so much as looked at him sideways.  They know it’s a lost cause.

 

I’ve been such a fool. 

 

 _We’re_ that annoyingly loved-up couple, aren’t we?   

 

He’s even wearing that infernally stupid hat.  It might as well say, “Property of vampire.”

 

He’s really that in love with me, isn’t he?

 

Fuck.

 

“Finished with being a numpty?”  He shouldn’t be able to sneak up on me, but it requires high levels of concentration to sulk this properly.  He places my glass in front of me and settles back into his seat.  “Look,” he starts, letting out a breath as if he’s prepared something, “last year, I gave you an out, and you gave me one back.” 

 

Whatever pitiful excuse I have for a heart flops painfully in my chest.  This is it.  My magic’s gone cold in my veins.  I wonder if it’ll leave me entirely, if it’ll follow him.  I’ll end up with Nicodemus after all, rolling dice in an alleyway in a threadbare suit with wide lapels.  My vision’s gone black at the corners.  I never knew it could.  I guess I’ll get to ask Nicodemus about it soon enough, after I trudge out of here like the living dead.  If only some of the myths were true.  I’d transform into a bat, or turn myself invisible.  It would spare me the humiliation, at least.

 

Simon waves a hand in front of my face, and his voice warps in my ears as he says, “Stop looking at me like that.”  It comes out harsh, but I don’t blame him.  I’m revolting.  I’d had my chance not to be, but I’d chased him away like the monster I am. 

 

I look at the floor instead.  It’s better that he doesn’t see me this way, that he won’t have to see the moment my heart snaps in half.  I wonder if it’ll be enough to kill me this time – if I’ll actually die for real.  It’s possible.  I can already feel this spearing through me, sharp as a stake.  If he has any sense at all (which he does, if he’s purging me from his life), he’ll use **Up, up and away** to sweep my ashes off of the balcony and into the night air. 

 

“Would you _just_?”  He takes my face in his hands until I’m forced to look at him.  Why hasn’t he ended me already?  He was always destined to do it.  It was always going to be him.

 

“I’m not taking it, okay?  I never will.  You’re my chosen one – the only one.  It’s you.  Every day.  Always.  No one else could ever get in the way of it.”  I let myself relax into his palms (because I’m weak), but he keeps on fighting, thrusting his chin out at me as he continues, “From now on, I want to know everything.  No secrets.  You shouldn’t ever feel like this.  Not if I can help it.”

 

My paralyzed heart splutters back to life, pumping magic back into the tips of my fingers.  I don’t even know where to begin – he’s already said everything I could think to say back, but I try anyway.  “I love you.  So much that I think I’ve gone mad with it.  Clearly I have, and I’m sorry I’ve been keeping this from you, but Simon, the same goes for you.  I don’t want you not telling me how you feel either.  I don’t care about what other people think.  I’m bloody well gay.”  I kiss him and I can feel his lips curve up into a smile.  I exhale for what feels like the first time all night.  “Extremely.  And I’m in love with you.  Beyond completely.  If there was a stronger word, it’d be that.  I want everyone to know about you, about us.  I’d shout it from the roof of your flat if you wanted me to.  I’d pass out pamphlets at the tube station.  I’d take out a page in _The Record_.  And the _Daily Mail_.”

 

“Then what is it?” he pushes. 

 

“It’s because I want more,” I say.

 

“More?”  He looks confused.  He shouldn’t be, but I’ll spell it out for him.

 

“ _More_.  Shall I simplify it for you?  When we hold hands,” I take his in mine, “I want to kiss you.”  I press my lips to his and I kiss him soft and slow, kiss him like he doesn’t know how much he could ever mean to me.  “When I kiss you, I want to touch you.”  I place my fingers on his waist, at the places I know I’d bruised him, and I bring my magic to the surface, letting it sink into him until his pulse quickens.  “When I touch you, I want to fuck –”

 

“Merlin, Baz, I get the point,” he pants, grinning.  “And I’m that irresistible to you?”

 

“Immensely.”  I nod.  “To me and to everybody else.”

 

“So you’re jealous?”  His blue eyes flash and I know better than to fuck the answer to this one up again.

 

“Yeah, I’m just a little bit jealous, alright?”  I roll my eyes and he laughs, coming in close to kiss me again, and I think I must be alive after all, from the way he’s been making my heart stop and start.

 

“You really shouldn’t be.  You’re the only one who has me.”

 

“I know,” I sigh, tracing circles onto his thumb, “but believe it or not, it’s not always that simple.”

 

“I’m the one who should be jealous anyways,” he adds.  I raise my eyebrow in a silent question.  “Nobody’s shut up about the fit bloke in the corner all night.”

 

“Well,” I say dryly, “he’s all yours.”

 

“Right.”  He tilts his head, thinking.  “I see what you mean.  You know it rationally, but it doesn’t make the feeling go away entirely, even when I hear you say it.”

 

“You’re telling me.”  I snort into my drink.  “What do you think got me into this mess?”

 

“I have an idea.”  He sets down his glass and straightens up.  “I think it’ll help the both of us.”

 

“Intensive therapy?” I scoff, although I probably need it, if tonight has proved anything.

 

“Nope.  Something better.  Something I think we’ll both like.  Something I’m borrowing from you.”  He stands, stepping in close between my legs.  “You’re wearing jeans, Baz.  _The_ jeans.  And you _know_ what it does to me when you wear jeans.”  He edges his fingers in between the rips at my thighs and the air between us crackles and sparks.  “And I want you.  More than anything.  But I’m going to make you beg for it.”

 

“You wouldn’t.”  I smirk, shaking my head.  You couldn’t.”

 

 “I will.”  He juts his jaw forward again.  “I’ll prove it.”

 

“I’ll make you pay, Snow.”

 

“Good,” he says, lowering his lips to mine.  “I’m counting on it, Pitch.”

 

And then I kiss him. 

 

And there’s no tension in it this time, but there’s fire in it all the same. 

 

 _Crowley_.  I’d better warn Bunce.  There’s going to be an explosion, and I don’t think there’s enough spells in the world that could possibly cover it.


	7. Epilogue

PENELOPE

 

If, before this had all started, you’d told me that Baz could look at Simon with love in his eyes, I’d have told you to get your vision checked (both literal and prophetic).  Merlin knows I’m an expert source when it comes to having poor eyesight. 

 

But he does.  And he is. 

 

Simon had burst through the door and fallen onto the sofa after his final exam of the term and I know he’d been exceptionally exhausted because he hadn’t even fought me on my choice of viewing material.  Simon claims he hates _The Great British Bake Off_ (“What’s the point in watching a program about food if you can’t eat it?  It’s self-inflicted punishment,” he’s complained).  Baz pretends he doesn’t like it either (“Baking?  How riveting,” he’s observed dryly), so it must be a complete and total coincidence then, that Baz had started baking after his classes, as if Simon drooling over televised desserts hadn’t been any incentive at all.  He’s presented Simon with more varieties of scones than I’ve seen on the show, although sour cherry is still Simon’s favorite by far, much to Baz’s indignation (the pumpkin mocha breve flavored ones had gone uneaten by everyone but him).  Just last week, I’d walked in on them in the kitchen, covered in flour, Simon trying to stuff buttered and clotted creamed scones into Baz’s protesting face.    

 

But yet neither of them enjoy watching it with me. 

 

Right.

 

Simon hasn’t moved since, other than to lift his head up and onto Baz’s lap (another thing you could never have convinced me of back at Watford – Simon would have thrown himself out of their window and into the moat before he gave Baz easy access to his neck).  Baz had been providing a running commentary (“The filling in that Yorkshire pudding looks like something Batty’s hacked up,” he’d sniffed minutes ago), but he’d stopped all pretenses of watching the show once Simon had fallen asleep.  He’s watching him now instead, running his hand through Simon’s hair as if Batty had been the one to curl up in his lap (she hadn’t gotten the chance – Simon had beaten her to it and she’d had to resort to settling herself into mine).

 

The moment’s quiet and peaceful, and I’m thinking about how it’s a scene I never thought I’d get to see (Simon and Baz together, definitely, but I’m mainly thinking about Simon in general, happy and safe and living a life that doesn’t involve death and destruction), when a knock at the door disturbs my reflection.

 

And he’d been fast asleep, but food clearly trumps rest in his hierarchy of needs, because Simon’s swinging to his feet in an instant, ruffling his curls with a yawn as he makes his way to the door.

 

As much as this particular future had seemed an unlikely one, some things were always bound to remain constant.

 

 

SIMON

 

Today’s been a day and a half, and I’m thoroughly knackered after cramming all week, but things are looking up.  There are bags of takeaway in my eyesight and the promise of a foot massage from Baz later.  (I’d been studying on the sofa until 2 am last night and had successfully negotiated one out of him in exchange for coming to bed.)  (I _had_ been wrapping things up anyway, but I obviously hadn’t been going to tell him that.)  (Penny says Baz doesn’t think I’m capable of deception, but I can be opportunistic too.)

 

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you,” I grin, digging into my trouser pocket for the notes Penny and Baz had tossed at me earlier.  It’s always been the same delivery person as long as we’ve been ordering, a pretty and petite uni student with a widow’s peak as high as Baz’s.  Her hair’s chestnut brown instead of black, though, so it kind of ruins the dramatic effect.

 

“Me too,” she replies, and I figure it’s because I’m holding money out in front of her, but then she’s handing me the bags and pressing herself against the doorframe.  “So I’m done delivering for the night.  Any chance you’re gonna eat all of this yourself?”  She juts out a hip and leans in closer, lowering her voice.  “I could help you, if you wanted.”

 

Before, I would have thought that she was just being friendly (maybe a bit overly so, but I’m always the one to get the door and we’ve lived here for nearly a year).  I hadn’t had the best experiences finding friends, growing up in care, and then I’d been off to Watford, where my classmates either feared or idolized me (all except Baz, of course) (and Penny, too), and nobody there had dared to flirt with me (even Baz, unless you want to call fighting flirting, and I guess Agatha and I had just sort of fallen into it without the need for pick-up lines).  But Baz had educated me when we’d been talking in bed after the party last week and I’d realized maybe _I_ was being a bit too friendly back without even knowing it, and that there wasn’t a need to be so agreeable all the time.

 

It doesn’t take much now, to recognize that this is one of those times.

 

“Thanks for the offer,” I start, inching the door open so she can see inside to the kitchen, “but my very attractive boyfriend is over there, and we already have dinner plans.”  Baz is looking over at us from around a stack of plates and he gives a little disinterested wave (the liar).  “But even if he wasn’t, I’d probably be good anyway since I eat like a pig.”  She’s retreated backwards and I push the door mostly shut, calling politely through the crack, “Have a nice night!”

 

I plop the bags onto the coffee table and sit next to Baz as if nothing had happened.  Nothing really had, but Baz’s hand is tight around my back and the other one is smoothing my hair from out of my face (my curls are seriously rumpled from using him as my personal pillow). 

 

“You did it, didn’t you?” he says, and the look he gives me has my magic rising to the surface. 

 

I’m really not a courageous fuck for it though (it was far too easy).  And I hope it’s not going to be an absolute nightmare for us any longer. 

 

It shouldn’t be. 

 

We’d studied nonverbal behavioral communication styles in Psychology this term, and I can’t believe I hadn’t identified Baz’s sooner, but I’m much better at recognizing the unsaid now.  I just had to figure out what Baz was trying to tell me.  Now I know.  Right now, he isn’t jealous or sad or upset.  If I had to guess, I’d say he’s a bit proud and a little hot and bothered from the way I handled things and I am too, if I’m honest.

 

The telly cuts out and flickers, filling the room with static before it blinks back on.

 

Okay – correction.  _A lot_ hot and bothered. 

 

Some things were always bound to remain constant. 

 

Ugh.  So is Penny’s insistence on watching _The Great British Bake Off_ , evidently.  I may love food (Baz had eventually given in and ordered me two mains because I’d been agonizing over deciding), but I really don’t get the appeal.  I mean, it’s not like you can actually eat any of it, right?  It’s like walking away from half a sandwich.  You think about it and think about it and you just want more.

 

But maybe if we keep it on, Baz will make me scones for dessert. 

 

 

BAZ

 

I should make Simon scones later. 

 

We’d talked for hours last week, holding hands under the sheets, where he’d kissed away my self-doubt, where his magic had obliterated every jealous thought I’d ever had.  I’d poured my magic – my love – back into him until there hadn’t been room for anything else, until our hearts had been set aflame.  There’d been words too, promises and declarations, and I knew he’d be true to them, but I hadn’t wanted to find out if he’d know how to keep them.

 

But he had. 

 

And it had been… _hot_. 

 

It’d been hot before, but somehow it’s even hotter now, knowing that he wants me as much as I want him, knowing that he loves my flaws as much as I love his.  The sentiment is alarmingly saccharine (to the point where my fangs are in danger of falling off), but they’re a part of him.  And I love every part of him.  (Even the one that still insists on rising at the crack of fucking dawn like a rooster in need of a good throttling.)  I still _really_ don’t see any (any that matter), but he won’t hear of it.  When I’d tried to tell him so, he’d shaken his head, whispering against my lips, “I’m not perfect, Baz.”  _Wrong_ , I’d thought.  “And neither are you.”  _Right._   “But we’re perfect for each other.” 

 

“Why?” I’d asked, holding myself above him, but I’d already known.  I’d just wanted to hear him say it. 

 

He’d raised his lips to mine as his magic pulled me deeper inside of him, and his mouth had killed everything I’d been trying to think as he breathed, “Because we match.”

 

It’s all I can think about, now.

 

His leg’s pressed against mine as he inhales his samosas in a way that should be nauseating, but I’ve never been hungrier.  (I should probably seek professional help.)  My magic’s blazing under my skin and I can feel his surging higher and I’m thinking about carrying him off to bed, takeout containers and all, when the television shorts, shutting off with a definitive click.      

 

Silence.

 

“Si.”  Bunce swivels her head to face us, glaring over at us from her parent’s overstuffed armchair.  “I thought you told me it’d been sorted.”

 

“Yeah, it has.  We’re good,” he responds cheerfully, smiling into his curry as he shovels it into his mouth.  I have to look away.  Any longer and I’ll be thinking about all the wanton things his mouth can do.  If I thought him capable of strategy (he’s too reckless and impatient for mind games – he can’t help but to charge into things with his metaphorical sword drawn), I’d suspect him of doing it on purpose.   

 

“But this is still happening.”  She motions between us.  “This, this…”

 

“Erotic gropefest?” I supply helpfully.

 

Simon blushes and shrugs.  There’s a bit of sauce on his chin.  I want to push him back into the cushions and lick it off.  Maybe I’ll just dump the whole bloody container on him.  Or on myself. 

 

Crowley, why is watching him eat such a fucking _pornographic_ experience? 

 

Bunce clears her throat. 

 

“That about sums it up, yeah,” he agrees, swallowing heavily as he eyes me back, and if I weren’t done for already, I would be now. 

 

Maybe if I verbalize how disgusting this should all be, I’ll be able to maintain some of my composure.  “It will all come to an end soon if you don’t stop talking with your mouth full,” I scold, deliberately curling my lip.  “You have the table manners of a wild dog.  It’s appalling.”

 

“So you’ve said,” he pauses, destroying my resolve with a wink (it makes him look vaguely deranged, but fucking hell, my mind goes to the most vulgar of places when he flirts with me) (it’s almost _unbearable_ , the things it makes me want to do), “but I bet you still want to slip me the tongue.”

 

I’m thinking about doing it when Bunce thumps the arm of her chair.  A little spray of stuffing pops out and her plate wobbles, dipping perilously towards the floor.  “Boys!  _Enough_.  Somehow _this_ ,” she gestures dramatically, “is all _fine_ and you’re _still_ acting like two said wild dogs in heat?  Great sodding snakes, how are Micah and I ever going to get up to any shagging of our own?” she fumes, glowering at us like an angry chimera.  Heat’s practically blasting out from her in waves.  Batty must feel it too, because she jumps down from off of Bunce’s lap and runs for cover. 

 

Simon’s mouth is hanging open.  It’d be easy to slip my tongue in now.

 

“What?” she demands, spearing her chicken with her fork.  “You’re extremely distracting even when you’re trying not to be.  You can’t even eat _dinner_ with you two without your magics feeling each other up.”

 

“Relax, Bunce.”  I raise up my hands defensively.  She’s likely to start spouting actual fire at us soon, and I’m flammable.  “Fiona’s been put on a project in Paris and I promise we’ll be out of your way while Micah’s here.  You can shag all you want.  We won’t be here to stop you.  Crowley, you can even shag on Snow’s bed if it makes you feel better.”

 

“Hey!” he objects, his tongue poking out to lick at his lips.  (Why must he be so bloody lewd?) 

 

“I’m not going to shag on your bed, no matter _how_ sexually frustrated I am,” Bunce scoffs, wrinkling her nose.  “Too many dark rituals have taken place there.  We’d probably summon a sex demon.”

 

“His face _is_ scarily symmetrical,” Simon remarks, unloading another heaping spoonful of Bombay potatoes onto his plate.

 

“I believe the PC term is incubus,” I offer.

 

“I didn’t ask you, Basil.  _You’re_ the incubus in this household.”

 

“Of course I am.  I told you I’d be haunting your door day and night.  I warned you and yet you still invited me in.”

 

She just huffs a breath and rolls her eyes.

 

“But Baz,” Simon says, tugging at my arm, “I thought Fiona said we couldn’t stay in her flat after last time.”  I’d _told_ Simon experimenting with chocolate sauce was a bad idea (he spills everything he consumes – it’s like he thinks wearing his food is a requirement to eating it), but he’d refused to believe me.  The heat of our magics had made the resulting stain even stickier and we hadn’t been able to get it out, even after using all of the cleaning spells I knew.  Fiona had eventually removed it using a barrage of Normal methods (why we hadn’t thought of that, I don’t know – we’d gone the unsuccessful route of hiding it with carefully arranged throw pillows), but she’d still inflicted her wrath upon us.

 

“I had to arrange a few things first, but it’s been settled.  Turns out, there was a particular vampire she wanted to reconnect with.  I had a few questions for him anyway, so –”

 

“- Wait.  What?  You went without me?” he growls, licking rice from off of his fork violently.  _Merlin_.

 

“Crowley, Snow,” I say, barking out a laugh.  “I’m not bringing you to a vampire hideout.  Don’t be daft.  You smell like ambrosia.”

 

“But you did before,” he protests, frowning.

 

“Before,” I point out, “when _we_ weren’t an _us_ and it was your own fault if you decided to be a splendid moron with me.” 

 

“But –”

 

“Hush.”  I narrow my eyes at him, but they soften involuntarily when I continue, “It’s important that you stay alive.  I know it’s hard for you, darling, but you must.”

 

His face falls into something resembling a pout.  I say resembling because he can’t really mean what he proposes next.  No sane person would. 

 

“You should just Turn me so you don’t have to worry about it,” he says with a shrug, matter-of-fact, as if he’d casually suggested something as banal as calling for takeout.  This, coming from the person who couldn’t even decide what they’d wanted to order earlier.  I may love him (oppressively so), but Simon Snow is still a fool.

 

Everything’s made certain when you join hands with death.  It’s all been chosen for you.  There’s no going back.  There’s no changing your mind about it.  It’s final.

 

It isn’t meant for someone as alive as him. 

 

“Simon!” Bunce hisses. 

 

“He said he would before!” he blurts out, and she responds wordlessly, her mouth falling open as an outraged noise works its way up from the back of her throat. 

 

“You were there, Bunce,” I sigh, rubbing at my forehead.  “It was a joke.  Mostly.”

 

“Mostly?” she echoes, her voice shrill.  She’d been glaring at Simon, but she twists to face me, pinning me under the weight of her gaze.    

 

I avoid her eyes and turn to look at Simon.  Thank Crowley there’s nothing in his mouth.  If there was, I doubt I’d be able to get this out right. 

 

I exhale, taking his hand in mine.  “It was when I thought I’d lost you, and then your magic,” I explain, and he squeezes at my thumb.  “It was when I thought I might need you to live with me forever, but there’s no point in that now.  We don’t need to worry about forever.”

 

“We don’t?”  His brow’s wrinkled, like he’s trying not to look too hopeful.

 

“No,” I confirm.  “Turns out I’m going to get old and grey and I’m going to die kissing you.”

 

He tries to contain it (I suppose most people likely _would_ refrain from openly celebrating their partner’s eventual and absolute death), but he smiles, small and slow.  I’m as happy about it as he is though.  Probably more.  My potential immortality had once seemed like yet another hurdle, another difference to overcome between us, and I know some magicians would chase down the chance of possessing forever (I know of at least one), but I’d never wanted it.  If six weeks in a coffin felt like eternity, I don’t even want to know what an eternity without him would feel like.  (Purgatory, if I had to guess, and the fire and brimstone would light me up like an oily rag in an orange flame.)  (At least it’d put me out of my eternal misery.)

 

“What else did you find out?” he asks, leaning forward, like he’s forgotten he’s supposed to be angry with me. 

 

“I can’t tell you _that_.” I shake my head solemnly.  Like I’m ever going to spoil my fun (what little of it my condition allows me).  “Vampire’s pact.”

 

“That’s not even a real thing!” he shouts, pursing his lips at me.  They’re sticky and would probably taste of chili and ginger and magic knows I may just combust anyway, even without the threat of hellfire.    

 

“You’ll never know,” I say.  “I’d die for real if I told you.  So please discontinue this line of questioning, or I’ll turn into ash and then nobody will be seducing a vampire today.”

 

He shoves more food into his face (I’m hopelessly in love with a bottomless pit masquerading as a human being), muttering something about our “no secrets” agreement.

 

I knew I’d be in trouble (I’d made promises too), but I also knew he’d want to come with me if I’d told him where I was going (I’d only gotten away with it because he’s been sleeping like the dead after studying himself out this week and his own snores had kept him from stirring), and it hadn’t been worth risking his safety.  He hadn’t noticed it the last time he’d accompanied me (he’d been too busy tripping over himself in the dark), but I’d seen the stares, and they’d been thirsty.  I’d sooner him break it off with me than have him drained or Turned.  At least I could beg and plead for him to take me back.  The other possibilities aren’t as easily reversible. 

 

“This was an omission, not a secret,” I try.  Can’t hurt.  Simon’s not likely to argue semantics with me.  I’ve advised him against it often enough.  “And I told you eventually, didn’t I?” 

 

“That’s _it_.”  He drops his fork and thrusts out his chin.  “We need our own pact, if you’re willing to adhere to your vampire one so faithfully.  No _omissions_ , no secrets, no lies, no inaccuracies, no misrepresentations,” he outlines.  “From now on,” he adds as an afterthought, like he knows better than to give me any room for interpretation. 

 

I don’t object.  The only thing I’d ever have to lie about is the vampire hideout, and it’s not like I’ll need to meet up with Nicodemus again there.  I have a feeling he’ll be more accessible in the near future.  (The jury’s still out on whether or not this could be a vampire thing.  Predictive abilities could theoretically enable vampires to hunt more efficiently, but not every vampire seems to have them and no one’s obviously studied it to know if it could be proven.) 

 

“Splendid idea, Snow,” I concede, clasping my hands together.  “We can start ours now.  Here’s the truth.  If I didn’t know better, I think you’d have a death wish, and I like you safe in our room knowing you’re there where no one can hurt you.”

 

“That’s where I want you too,” he says quietly, looking up from his empty plate.  “Not off plotting and scheming and talking to vampires.”

 

“Just go there.  Now,” Bunce moans, waving her knife in the air.  “The both of you.  You’re ruining my appetite.”

 

I ignore her.

 

“Doesn’t mean that I’ve forgiven you,” Simon continues, tilting his head as he searches my face for any lingering lies.  There aren’t any, and he must be able to see it too, because he slides his foot against my calf as he goes on with a lopsided smile, “But I _may_ let you get away with it if you make me scones.”

 

“Deal.”  I was planning on doing it anyway, but I’m not going to tell him that.  (Simon thinks he knows how to negotiate, but I’m always one step ahead.)  (I’ll always be a step ahead of him.)  ( _And_ three inches above him.)  The only thing better than watching Simon eat is watching him drool over something I’ve made him.  There’s also the noises (undeniably sexual – I’d know), and the licking of his fingers (fuck) …

 

“That was brilliant,” he groans, leaning back to rub at his stomach.  I wish I was the one eliciting noises from him.  “Shame we’ll have to find a new takeaway place now.”

 

“I’ll take _you_ away,” I retort, arching an eyebrow in his direction. 

 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Bunce grumbles, scowling into what’s left of her chicken tikka masala.  It’s an admirable attempt, but I can see the corners of her mouth twitch up.

 

It does to me.  Now that he’s eaten, Simon’s magic is acting like it’s been starved of my attention.  It’s practically trying to devour mine.  And I’m just as ravenous as he is.

 

Simon grins, then leans over to wrap his arms around my neck.

 

“Go on, then,” he says, “Carry on, Baz.”

 

And so I do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm living my best fic writing life and took a stab at another thing I've always loved (5 + 1s).
> 
> I'd originally intended for this to be short and sweet and nearly entirely from Baz's point of view with no smut at all. But Simon couldn't shut up and neither could I, and lol, I'm disturbed (ask anyone). So here we are!
> 
> Comments and kudos make my life, so if you enjoyed it, I would love it if you let me know! I went through a good deal of writer's block and the comments from Sex Magic that rolled in while I wrote this helped me to keep going. Thank you for reading!


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